Where all the battles fought are in my head
There are no dragons left for me to tame.
My sword is blunt, my valiant steed is lame.
My armour, once bright white, has rusted red.
Those brave young knights, who guarded me, are dead
And I'm the one to shoulder all the blame.
Each laughing knave was pulled into the flame
By chivalry - where Angels fear to tread.
For seven years he kept her secret close,
The candle burning deep within his heart.
As delicate as any English rose
With thorns with strength to prise their love apart.
At winter's end - no beauty in the bloom.
The petals wilt, as petals often do.