A quill of thorns, from roses wrought in pain,
To write with heartache's ink on parchment bare,
Each word a piercing thorn, a crimson stain,
Expressing depths of woe for all to bear.

The lines I weave like threads of sorrow's loom,
Inscribed with tears, in ink of darkest hue,
To capture all the pain, and all the gloom,
A poignant tale, both raw and ever true.

And as I write, the thorns dig deep within,
Releasing pent-up anguish, fierce and wild,
The quill now soaked in tears, confessing sin,
A tortured soul laid bare, yet reconciled.

So with this thorny pen, my pain I share,
A rose-quill's prickly truth, beyond compare.

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Miraman, in the year 950 AF.