The Craven Tangle

In shadows deep, the monster grows,
A twisted vine where darkness flows.
It winds through roots and brittle stone,
A scavenger forlorn, alone.

Its tendrils reach, but not too far,
To snatch a flicker, dimmed like stars.
It shuns the strong, the bold, the bright,
And preys on whispers lost in night.

No towering oak, nor thorned rose,
It clutches moss and weakness shows.
Its grasp, a coward's fleeting claim,
A hollow echo, void of shame.

The breeze brings tales of conflict grand,
Of heroes bold, with steady hand.
But here, beneath the waning moon,
The vine retreats, a mournful tune.

For what is strength, when faced with fear?
A mirror cracked, a broken spear.
It longs for might, yet shrinks away,
A dewy pine trembling at the day.

And so, it coils in endless shame,
A nameless thing, denied a name.
Its hollow heart beats soft, unseen,
A vine wilting, where pride has been.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Daedalan, in the year 966 AF.