He with sharpened claws divide,
The world in which his maid has lied,
And from the midst of all descried
His anger lingers on.
Toucheth he with single claw;
He could not slay a quarter-four,
In case enchantement left him sore,
He'll lie beneath the sun.
And sadness, poetry full-bloom too,
Was all from well of life he drew,
To praise the girl that once he knew;
That girl he never won.
It was not she who broke his soul,
But life, he aches, by growing old;
And his bones, it's like they're sold
To that fierce time who runs.
He tries to fight, his mind to wipe,
But from his mem’ry, she won't swipe;
The always-chasing, eager type,
A maid so full of fun.
Stone-blow face, and temper full;
Eyes of meaning, trickery null,
Embraces hateful and makes them dull,
But what is done is done.
It was he and she, and them,
They were powerful, but then:
Connection, moods, ignored again,
Perhaps this time is lessons learned?
If he can't take the loss of her,
His soulmate Anger to his calm,
They maybe not just she will burn,
That pretty maid, those lost, those won.