Of Service and Servitude
What godly act ought not to perform without just?
So worldly facts torn without fuss from little limbs of so early trust.
For want not of intruding such trust- I beckon thee thus; to wander must upon impeding cost of perilous persons you accost. Stern thy growing soul and harden thy resolution to the task- let not life’s quarrels bring thee cost of thus unholy loss of care. Persons upon persons will attest- to stories told at one’s behest- the truth’s true face has beheld its breath- to squander not from such persons chest. Yet the great will wander past– pausing once to muster pass and loosing ground to ruthless chaste– will ponder thus the incongruity of such fate- to see one born in service too woeful to relate- lest intrude upon another’s hate which swelters greatly still of late.
And wonder must such great behold- with laden understanding of impending cold- upon such beauty as such stories hold- for little women to be sold. Nay they speak the life does not fold- into true happiness as is told- for they are lost until old- alone and saddened by fate’s ignorant scold. So deserving are these souls- that for service of comfort they at once strive at idea of riches as one’s own — yet folly’s wings will have flown and lengthen thus one’s uncharitable home.
In chains of service spends one’s soul - growing older than an older old- to attest to longer days and darker nights at men’s laughing plight and engrossing delight. So fond a memory at chance to provide- falls nothing more than casual tide- in drunken slanders in public fights- discourse so vulgar as to be lost any remaining sanctity of the deed. Yet holler they of worthy breed- to count their soils and spray their seed- to any receiving flower within range; this nature’s beast was given brain. Rye are what thoughts do come- to deceive the thinker to have them done- all the while earth’s true beauty becomes– undone. Like slaughtered lamb its wondrous blood does run- upon weathered cheeks of the fairest fair loosing color with each crystalline tear.
In name of ends that may not share- upon the whole with longer hair. Yet upon the setting sun with the day’s sum to be understood before sleeping- would overcome the thinker’s mind of what exactly does define the nature of one’s service. That mind should find- the common thread that does bind- the spirited nature of the blind- in hoping to in such features find- the truest purchase of the common sign and read the nature of its message line by line.
So such service does stay– born thus from the first of days and will forever obey the master’s command he be paid- service and servitude for his play- at the ravage of his maiden’s way.