Your thorns are made obvious in the crystal light of day. Harsh winds unveil all as dawn shadows dissipate.
Where is your master? He lies cold and stiff
as the luminescent structures:
dead, abandoned, yet you plead tarry.
Why do you struggle? Give me your hand. You have no nectar to tempt me to bleed. No? Fine, then your fate is sealed.
All may be thawed, but you choose to shiver.
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