i must sing now the sake of need, its here at last,
for however i wish to see, the truth is coming fast.
no longer stands the master near his son,
dying as the fire has begun.
hark! another angel's turning blue,
the lady who wears black cries for you.
ramblers in a classroom and no innocence,
master gambled treasure and was building sense.
an upturned pocket poet from the streets,
drawing sonnet letters off the beats,
dragged himself through shadow till he was true,
the lady who wears black comes to you.
all the mountain's leveled, there's nowhere to roam,
all the rain and ash can make is murky foam,
and the love you built this castle for
is queening up on the farthest shore.
lay under the season's mystic hue
and the lady who wears black lays with you.
eve is getting cold and blind howling beckons few
who let the dead master go up in pyres high, and through
the poet's ink tapping out his chore,
the wind begins to whisper words of war
the lesser king receives what he is due,
the lady who wears black comes for you.