The waxing tide of ebon fears,
Pours forth from him in withered tears,
The shadowed light of once bright eyes,
His voiceless song now soft belies.

A coward knows what must be done,
His duty takes him from the sun.
Beleaguered still by once brave soul,
He tarries yet from fateful goal.

The jagged dirk is there to serve,
The poltroon hand which lacks the nerve,
To take it up and end the cries,
Of hateful love, and restful lies.

What right has he to woes or wails,
When all about tell sadder tales.
'Tis treachery and craven brand,
That lifts the knife to trembling hand.

It rises up to poise before,
The weakling cur's enshrouded door
The gates to what was once his heart,
Lie bare before this welcome dart.

And here he stands, and there he's stood,
For days and years, for ill or good.
He cannot choose, this vassal of
The king of fear, the queen of love.

The blade remains betwixt the two,
His heart for fear, the ground for you.
For you he writes what shan't be sung.
For you he lives, with shame's black tongue

What light shines still in grey, dim world,
To banish shadow now unfurled?
And how can one whose love is true,
Think all of him, and naught of you?