Iron Masks are forged from other hands
And by these hands affixed upon our eyes
And by these hands, which grasp our foot and wrist
Act as tethers we, unthinking, wrought

Tried and true; a magnum of our vices
Which, flailing, scream for water in our path
A drab and dank or fi'ry immolation
Blocking us from dreams with our own wrath

Knowing all is not beyond our measure
Our majesty is something we obscure
As if our own potential were impure
Fearing, somehow, sin in righteous pleasure

Short lives in high tides we bury our bodies beneath the waves
Fearing pursuit that would put our most treasured dreams to their graves

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Mayan, in the year 432 AF.