If a man wanders ahead from his one known faith, he steps to decline, remorseless as a fool.
Subdued alone, he bounds his very soul unto a line, as faith stands numb to watch him try.
As he is probed destitute by the winds of choice (he reflects) what says the tongue from this misers voice?
A demand of pay from those for love, as his feeling is owed for the life he does.
A tug on his mind shall let him know, how he defiled these very walls of his desensitized home,
Nomadic and young he'd ran his line, as quick as the memories that flee'd his mind.
Progressively so, he reached "trails end" as there sat perched, his loyal friend.
Desertedly roped with hands raw red, for he'd un-winded every thread.
"No matter, no curse" the friend exalted.
"Thus the viking topaz has not shunted your lighting,
The stone is insistant, it calls for the future,
It waits for you my friend, to sight yourself."
