Everyone secret.

Make a mockery, not of just, but she,

In fragile earth and deathly calm, she rides.

Tell not that tale to me.

For should I ride, on waters crest, or cry my last at river’s edge?

In reflection deep, or scyring glass,

Of blue sky and summer’s past.

Lost in but naivety, I sicken waiting for the new.

Blackest rose of deathly thorn,

Turn unto mine.

For what has been can not be seen,

Secret treasure, we all know.

In closed whispers and secret verse, the tale has been told.

And I cannot right the wrong, or is it right to wrong you too,

For I stayed close, I did not hide.

I made my promise kept safe for you.