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My hand was yet another shake.
With cringe and mighty force.
She looked at me in shame of hope.
In shame, shall we loose. In hope, shall we not fall.
For the fallen was too mighty. Too wicked for the patterns I knew.
Therefore, abiding to my standards, I took precaution.
There, I was, gazing over little words that led my mind to its habitat.
There, I knew the ways of the words. Taking it and shaping it.
There, I was, molding it into my own desire of learning.
Thus, people cried. Over the little things.
My ink welled signature was no imprtance over the death of a ghost.
For he livith in his days, but sickened in his bed.
So he was dead before, and whenceforth after.
I continued my ignorance for the rude heithens.
I made my way.
For the look she gave me, was long and far.
It drove out my disagreements.
But I continued.
Though my hands keeps shaking from my age of final.
I have the strenth to keep a dead one not dead.
For dead men tell no tales.
Neither thus I.
