The pages strewn across the desk of time
Shall quake before the writer's gilded pen
The likes of which no prior age divined
And nevermore will grace this world again
In infancy, yet born to wield the words
To shatter cities, to turn the tide of wars
To wash the heart with melodies unheard
From poet's pen shall blood and honey pour.
So fragile human hearts and minds do prove
And wind-swept words erased before they're writ
By apathy, incumbent on the throne.
These scattered skeletons shall never move
No blood nor honey shall his pen emit
And soft and gentle melody unknown.