The entirety of my life is spent in pointless search of this,
The essence of my artistry, clenched pen in shaking fist
I've fought battles long, and journeyed far, but nothing quite as hard
As putting pen to paper now, and spewing forth my heart.

What's in my heart? Perhaps a love, a love for wond'rous things
Mayhap it's something much akin to the dreams of deposed kings
Even so, 't'could be a lass's face or pretty smile,
Perhaps the footprints I have left in walking all my miles.

The laughs I've caused or given out to those who've been so kind
And given me a safe respite from which to temper my mind
Or the heat of passion for the blade that's sheathed inside my soul
The fray, the fight, a place for glory, where men like me are put in
holes.

The pangs of pain that cut like knives into the tissue there
The sounds of sobs, last words of friends, a lock of Erato's hair
A couplet wrote in the heat of love, only to be subdued
By harsh reality that slays, and, from me, love, denudes

The beateous glance of a maiden fair, whose aim is but to tease
With wishes that I'd met her sooner, afore her lover's seize
The 'should haves' that always follow such things;
The caged soul of a man whose songbird, hungry, doesn't sing.

Metrist Soulfyriani, Wand'ring Bard
Lupar 24th, 439 AF


Penned by my hand on the 25th of Phaestian, in the year 448 AF.