Charged Wires- The Wind In The Willows

Soft sound through dark halls
Sends memory like a creak
Babbling along brooks

There are 4 rivers
A third turning into blood
But where is the rush?

In these fingertips
Question prompted and I run
Too young to make it

But time marches on
With senses not overwhelmed
New steps are picked up

The gauntlets whisper
Encoded and encrypted
Through the stalks they graze

My Hope from the start
You knew I never hoarded
For my benefit

Innocence tempered
Into eagerness to please
And a foreign tongue

By hands most patient
And eyes sparking for ages
Inexplicably

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