A rose is intwined on the galleries moat
Where Liz' pious hoarders will measure all's note.
And the knot speaks divine, yet it goes on unspoke,
As the lyre's song, by void, it's devoured s'if by goat.
Yet the ravenous blindmen (hu-men) continue unfilled
Selling scent by the petal while, with rose, mop up spilled.
"But their silks are sublime", and still not of the ilk
Of perfection from time without love, lust or guilt.
On the eyes of the holders ride such torrid things
As glad mounting of nightmares and counting of sins,
Yet beyond visions glaze prances happy-'er-afters prince
For he knows outwith sight that the rose always wins.
Gallant swords twinkle on throne of foundation
Such weapons dont smite, only serve preservation.
On the rose, that i speak, yet in mans hand and nation
New red dwarves of rape mark annihilation
