Crisp and gentle

So holy and pure

But within his censor

He was a torrented garment

Gnawed and corroded

He walks amidst worldly glory

But deep within he was gury

He tries his best to sail through

But his ship sinks of chaos

So he walks

Searching for the cure

His woes from the imps skied

But he was bent to go on

Then at a field

Fallowed in desolation

Stood a stake

Like the letter “T”

But less calling

And lovely

It stood amidst

A crown of thorns

There before such

The gentleman fell on his knees

For mercy.

By Minstrel

Loves writing...

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