Just. just

Just as fables are always told

in shades of a phantom gold

glimmer through a gaping hole

of the very sight we so consciously hold

but as my story steadily unfolds

I slithered away from my unbending mould

now lying barrenly arid and acold

This shall be my hour to be bold

no more manacles coated in rust

nor being caged with my burning lust

wretchedly bidding time for a gust

which carries the piercing blaze of dust

and with both my eyes tightly shut

I can sense a gleam of trust

almost as though it be a must

If I were to be truly just