Hark! they whispered, those dryads in the trees
And all throughout the woodlands I felt disease.
Plucking little white flowers, I twirled them between my fingers
A forced ballet, a triad,
then blew them away like cinders.
Nothing forth came, worry I laughed away.
Parting my lips, I sang of love gone astray.
But then arrived that murmured taunt,
That voice with such hypnotic flair,
Don’t play the fool, I’m the subject of your every prayer.
I thought to reply, but before sound came,
Lord Death smiled, muttered my name.
Wither, they seethed, those dryads, so repulsed now by me
And all throughout the woodlands I felt kin unraveling.
Plucking little drooping flowers, I made him a crown so all would know
I’d be the voice to his soothing