I think I write too much.
I think too much, I write.
I wish I had the guts.
My guts wish they were had.

Now, this is not my strength.
My strength is not the word,
But, if I weren't like this,
Perhaps then not I heard.

Too slowly do I fall.
Too slow for some, and yet
I bet the one I greet
Is not as still as that.

Why make this about Him
When Him I've never met?
So flip it on its head,
And stuff them in a pack.

The corpses crawl away,
So best to be aware.
If fall then to I are,
Fear not be down somewhere.

To sense hear make instead,
Pull through the sleep by far.
And blue sees yonder scar--
Tread lightly in her head.

And, no, she words the scheme
By rhyme of cure ignore.
Who fewer found the fuse,
When luck I've lost before?

But luck be dead it seems.
And though I've heard the song,
I still hold out the hope
That history is wrong.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Miraman, in the year 831 AF.