Battle Cry

On the west wind I hear you, fair Duke of the Sidhe.
Your song floats by me on raven's wing, antagonizing
The fire in my belly and seducing me to dance in the meadow,
A mere hand's reach from your glistening circle of perdition.
A rich promenade you present to me nightly,
Relentlessly battering my resolve to look away.
Your golden-white tresses pierce the night's armor of blackness,
And my words dissolve with an unspoken lie of indifference.
How must I fight you, sweet Augustus, to call victory
Over the forlorn tenderness that beckons from your bewitching eyes?
So tainted are my dreams by your rainbow sighs and ethereal caresses,
That perhaps an eternal slumber would be a most clever choice.
Think well and deeply this night on the temptation you bestow,
For the hand you proffer must, alas, be well played.
As the essence of vetiver and bergamot sedates me,
So shall I contemplate the consequence of this immortal binding.
And, on the morrow, you will glean an answer to your battle cry.

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