Sad, the soul's song at the loss of love.
And many hearts have long despondent sat
to mourn the absence wrought by withered touch.
Have glared upon the hands that brought their wrack
and traced their wrists to deleterious arms
that end with crooked shoulders that support
a face that seems repentant, honest, sure.
A mouth whose truths convert to agony
in one capricious moment. And this face
would like to claim their pity as it feels
the pain it caused so many in their day
as the varieties of loss appear.

Theft, it seems, is an accomplishment.
Its victims know no pain; their years of work
and pride in every piece they forged, filled, milked
evaporate, once taken by a force
that wails its torment to the very skies
expecting that the robbed will flock to soothe
the sheepskin-covered wolf, whose ragged guise
has worn so thin with years of heavy use.

--Grifter Zehl

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Mayan, in the year 311 AF.