thine talks of seasons...
yes, wither and fall did i...
allow your tears spill.

my dear, my Queen,
allow me a quiet cry.
same silence, same pain,
same fiery hate—
o'er the seasons that wither,
the same sad fate...

thine words meld into
warm iron of sadness...
left for an ancient beast,
what is and can be done...?

for favor of you, a heart bows
to your kindness
to your loneliness
to your lack...
i am what?

...i lack.

do i now?
yes, i, the ancient beast,

...i lack.

aha. saddens my Queen to hear such truth...
accept the truthful lie instead,
the Mercy brought—
omnipresent God, ever loving,
make lie truth.

cannot bear that burden, i
weak shadow extinguished by light,
glass prison gates open—
a full flood it brings,
pitted iron.

know this story, you do
a thousand anguishes
mine, you see.
that your sadness
find fault in one beast,
one lacking charm and elegance.

mere lunacy, this is.

yes, lunacy.

for whatever sadness that its Queen bears,
that beast cannot carry upon its shoulders,
cannot lighten the burden.

SHE HAS DONE ENOUGH FOR YOU.
SHE HAS DONE TOO MUCH.

so, glass flood gates,
free crimson water.




for what has died, be forever dead,
and what hopes sadness brings—
call not this lunacy, Lord.