Thy Serpent

In times, when I fain of a season
its chill hold me wist, of an unknown reason
Greyness upon streams parlous and cool
Sheer the light which reflects from Plenilune
Ready to tale stars of wan, as both forwandered,
and loath the ways thee all ran astounded
So did thine glaive rust with wind and water
so terrified of fallow thee roamed to gutte
Perhaps the fragments of thine willing skin
saw no reflections of, what is called a bale king
Neither have Fall's shades descended to leaves
Of no nightbird's ashes belong to mine needs