He likes the illuminated. A cause for which there is no root.
The tree he moves each day.
One for the morningstar, One for the dawn
and one for the woman who lays supine;
Watching the sun rise and crying for Mother's grace.

And She him finds within, a longing in his breast.
He is the lion, and She an advocating huntress.
He is the rain, and She the lost wanderer.
And they dance on the stars in upset tension.
Anger melting into laugher, what a moron is he.
For only She will he give his soul.

And while he waits, intolerance buds his seed.
Though never feeling like he is alone.
A martyr he is, laughing at those who kick their allies.
But it is She he misses while he writes shitty poems.

- Sir D. Marth Naser.
Whoops. I made you care less.


Penned by my hand on the 20th of Khepary, in the year 209 MA.