Roused I from a dreamless sleepless chill,
Summoned to the study, cool and still,
to find my patron sleeping deeply,
poured over cantos stolen cheaply,
Cobbled by whispers of ancient lore,
Having discarded me, long before.
So, having loved him, rob I his sight,
Allow him to dream of endless night,
Perhaps the Dark Stars will move his heart,
For only through pain grows the soul’s art,
When he wakes, aching prosaic sores,
My name on his lips, forevermore.