Thou Art Cold

Thou Art Cold,
Ye of wisdom,
For strike thy whim,
hold thou breath,
As a morning bird wouldst,
Sing in thou fine company,
In this prose, a deviant is to play,
For I am to pay,
For with whim,
I should hold,
For now,
Ye of wisdom,
Strike my whim,
Lost is what I would hold,
Thou Art Cold,


These hands of flesh,
Art of rock,
And stained as wine,
For what is done,
Was done for it,
Cold in mind,
Cold in flesh,
Cold of intent,
Warm thou art not,
For thou art now stained,
Of wine of the flesh,
For thou action is,
Surely that of thought,
For Thou Art Cold,


Fare Thee Well,
Thou of Cold,
Fare Thee Well.


Feet of dancing,
Oh feet in motion,
Dancing in the wind,
Grass so tall,
Color of crisp,
Thouest dance of joyous care,
Wiping Thine own cares away,
Upon this field o' Flowers so,
Radiant of pedal and thorn,


Pricked upon the thorn,
O' the radiant flower,
A drop of sorrow,
A pool of tension,
Resounding collision,
Pouring Heart from thine,
Empty of Soul,
Where art thou,
Bed of content,
Sheets of comfort,
Pillows of idle,
Thou Art Cold,
Now upon thine hearth,
Cold Thou shalt be,
Forever Cold.