Too long have I sat,
bowed in deep thought
upon Your Gifts so given
under the shadow of disappointment.
One word uttered in years
to ones You called Chosen.

Once Your voice sang within,
knew every thought and emotion
that broke itself upon Your spiralled shores.
The teeming words that welled
from the seed at the centre - the heart
of Corruption
that filled the silence
with unquiet.
No more.

And yet Your Gifts continue
to give, beyond the bounds
of Your displeasure:
they exist, as You.

I have learned the passion
of Avarice that rises in tides,
and it drives me to courage,
to conquer the Fear
that the dagger of Malice awakens,
so delicately wielded
by Your Dark hands,
pressing to every point of pain.

And so I rise out of Despair,
the inevitable end to which Your
every silence and pointed word marches.
And I spiral no more,
though still I strive towards Yourself -
Might, which You
have planted in every heart,
waiting to burst forth
in dark dominion.

My words are my only song,
my only weapon to guard
as I walk forward without Your whispers
at my ears. Though it has been years
since it has been Your song.

I am more than a shadow of fear.
And it is by Might that I stand
and seize my desire
for that which is well and of health
within me. Broken free.
And I take hold of my own mind,
and I take my leave of
You.

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 9th of Midsummer, in the year 495 MA.