Silent Flute

My lyre love, I’m nearly mute, a vacant storm, a silent flute.
But depth the soul, a lambent veil, the prose of God, the
Flames of hell. And nib serene, this cultic ink, despite the
Ship, is near to sink. My sibyl love, a prophet’s grief, a siren
Scar, a sullen fleece. And face to bleed, the pain of love, the
Wound of pride, a silent dove. And rumor flare, a tale of lies,
A den of thieves, the russet skies. Indeed the anchor, adrift
The flames, a toe to tip, the tears of rain.   
 
My silent flute, the sword of pain, despite the laughs, and
Cultic flame. And depth the soul, an angel wise, the gift of
Light, to oaken eyes. My lotic love, the act of sin, the fairest
Gem, aloft the wind. Thus the venture, a forest dark, a future
Blight, a tacit lark. And nib serene, this cultic ink, despite the
Ship, is near to sink.