The yarn of Fate. The farm of hate,
The harm would sate but not abate,
The rising tide whose time has come,
The fighting side to rest is laid.
.
Our Destiny’s beautiful face,
Unperturbed by our howling bays,
The Pack would move, the pup is lost,
They bother not with frenzied laze.
.
They’re laced with reddish ivy leaves,
The wolves are lambs, for she believes,
That’s not poison, our frets should cease,
We’ll sit in barns, we aim to please.
.
“These shackles are not your bracelets,
They’re not to love, nor to be set,
Aside from every filthy norm,
With which our love is now beset.”
.
The morrow wakes the Christmas crow,
The murder rocks him to and fro,
No gleaming eyes, no smirks to throw,
They take the boat the dead now row.