Whose words are swords in trembling hands
In morbid might spite grips and grows
From poorly composed blind demands.
Dis-ease consolidates to Lead
A warm thump of power lust
On drum skins stretched across my head
It’s presence ripples pure
Sweet clarity is my relief
Compassion is my cure
Is Gold that sets me free
That's Magick from the Wise Oak grown
My Friend – that’s Alchemy.