Ode, to a long lost icy wound

‘Tis true that deemed of scientific melodramas, dictate thine canonization be infact, dubious.

To their swollen pride, and empty scratches of ink, do I cast out such thoughtless tomfoolery.

Thine cosmic muse take thine hand and seek to whisper in thine ear, astrological tendrils of thy alchemists ways.

Thus from formed the hammer and the nail, forming ones knife cutting thine cheese and bread, pouring the blue wine forthcoming of thine like and thine presence in the circle of delights do brought the eldrich extacy that was fortolled in laborious toam. 

Gavelkind doth it comes upon me this harteous gift of thin father, and yet the space to perform this mentorious ritual placates thines spittletos angers and bituminous rage at having to wait until the seventh season of the sun to inherit it.

Only the itch of praises to you give me alibli and the ability to cast such a graven spell, to witch thine is of course  humbly to serve.

And this a spake the words to thine:

East, south, west, north

From land, to port

Free In mind and in spirit

Thank the for all the gifts, I hath been given in this life, but to you I now pray

Cast from me my sins be given a thousand more times their worth

I’d let you seek to send me to the darkest pits of hell if you so wish

But I only wish for the sight of wich you cast from me in my first year of life

From port to land

North, west, south, east 

Three times I say, and three times more, thus I spake it, so it be

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