How shall I scribe these emotions, Sparing the comparison to unrelenting indulgences So easily phased by a drop of mead, So gullible to the tune of love, And so akin to a lustful touch, A longing soon developed for those, Wished embraced.
Fickle riddles flow to those encapsulated, Snared by selfish hearts singing songs Of bequeathed flirtations in singularity. Wench. Quipped the folk upon her presence. The feathered hands once yearning for them, How quickly they turn to lead.