The horse hair vibrates sweet the stringed note
Its color, ruby, rubbed across night’s ground
The moon, the violinist of the sound
That glides against the Well of Souls in gloat.
Too, nestled in its silhouette, a lute
Stained red does spew a spider’s threads—profound—
Of Music glist’ning amber in resound,
To amity afford the blushing route.
Explodes the demon’s wings behind the strings,
Her fingertips in strum of serenades
To gods immortal; footfalls on the trail
Betray the slender gait of holy mage
With magic’s thread of fate, the hand availed
Which tugs him forth to reap conviction’s wage.