To the craftsman I say you have done yourself proud
Chiselled the truth from this icy shroud
Taken the myth that be the devil’s dowry
And made it into God’s work entirely
What of her soul oh master of the arts?
Why has her mind not be given good start?
Her lips move wonderfully to some tune I hear not
Her eyes betray an indifference to my lot
Her skin is like snow, but acts as if Ice
I would not meet her in battle twice
Bled and broken by silence not sound
Defeated not by hatred but love never found
So to the craftsman I say well done, good cheer and all
Created perfection that shall always stand tall
Not meant for me alas, this part of heaven
I will meet thee in hell, and there get even
Dedicated to, well, her….
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