Movement I: Prelude and Nocturne

Far from face of fervent fury shuffle feet, whose stepping hurries
and whose footsteps filled with worry draw a pity-lending sigh.
Fleet of foot from hatred waking, stepping back from mind unshaking
now in desp'rate undertaking of devotion, 'haps mistaking
that love below so fond of taking minds for love that sits on high.
'Haps mistaking simple pleasure for a better way of life.

Subtly stalking under boughs of a verdant urban grove,
deeper still beneath the floes of disinterested sight.
Clasped as one, the man and maiden, share a clutch that is unladen,
as if a burden bade them shed its weight to find safe haven,
finding sandy walls a saving shade of city known for light;
standing under walls in saving shade for much-needed respite.

Ever eager eyes are searching, and foul messengers are lurking
in the lurid inner workings of the darkness of the deep:
One who takes the time by patience for portentous presentation
nocking arrows in the basement in the hopes of realization
of dark dream of suffocation that the lovers' souls may weep.
Dark ritual negation in the Bastion's highest keep.

Movement II: Waltz

To-
night,
Walking in burgeoning, blossoming boughs under starlight
Marble and ivory irises filled to the brim,
with nights life
In drinking and dreaming its seeming were living the right lie
In the silence of twilight
the silence of our life
finds meaning
speaking
Dappled in dim and delightfully dancing
Free to indulge in romancing romancing
Loving our love by dreaming our dreams,
deigning to lose our last life in the stream
and drink our ambrosia now fearless and free

Movement III: Rondo in Sable Sonnet

The sun a liar, the ground a gorging whore
whos lavishly lapping the dead kings and wilted roses
The depth of the sky submits to the thunders roar
and all mortals will flee before clouds that envelop their houses

Within her shamanic repose in the walls of the North
toil and trouble are doubled; the dagger is readied for work.
The poison is hired from enclave of demons of worth--
the eye of Montagenet is present in road, bird, and bark.

The sun a lyre, the ground a gorgeous horde
who eagerly awaits the fervent froth of the frozen
The deep unrelenting of haze from hand ferver-formed
strikes the human from mortal, the righteous from hand of the chosen

Finger as arrow, intent as herald of death,
portent of venom not staying the walking dead;
a hand comes and purges the bodys defiant breath,
though hand cannot ever in face of her hope bear a threat.

The sun a lair, the ground a grieving sore
whose beautiful kings and gardens forever it loses
to its own kings and gardens defiant that others should pour
themselves into sun that those slain by defiers would choose--

Those same kings and gardens defiant that others should live
rot here on the earth while their victims ascend to above.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Phaestian, in the year 420 AF.