Where has this black mist come?

Who had conjured such a storm?

Perhaps it was the silver serpant that

slipped into my creaking cradle,

the vemon that tainted my blue blood.

Perhaps it was the markings

of an ink and quill

upon a candle lit parchment

that stained my white veil.

Was it the voices creeping

from the towering citadels

where feathered words of love

poisened with hate hath fell?

It was once the promise of paradise

that drove men to love,

but now its fear of hell

that pushed the men from compassion.

Is mine a sin to love?

To feel the way I do

Is mine a sin to think

about things I never should?