Golden whispers in the air
Drizzle lightly into my dark lair
And beckon to me to her become aware
Shall I respond or no thinks I
Tis not the question to myself I rebuke
For tis likened to why a bird doth take to the sky
To what reason do you hold to crouch farther back
To the call of bright future possible?
Fear of inability to be fully true is my lack
To take what may be given with naught in kind return
Only solace of wintered passion
Chilled with nary hint of fire hidden to mutually burn
Coward or martyr of silken dreams continually denied
Greedily, quickly bottling fanciful thoughts
And placing arow with others cellared inside
Yet with the simplest of movements and reach
Do I dare ice such voice?
And later regret the silence I would invariably teach?