Twenty Seven

Okay, I know this is late. Sorry! Anyhow, here we go!

My lord is a father whose hands close around the scruff of my neck
His words worm into my ears and force my eyes to the floor
As his firm grasp pulls me along the icy floor to teach me better
My lord is a tutor whose speeches are lengthy
Each day is a chance to grow and to learn he tells me at dawn
With a wide grin and a steady posture to draw a clear path
For my lord is a wander whose just as lost as we
Long ago he discarded the maps and the scrolls
Knowing that nothing man made could show him his way
My Lord is a warriors whose sword hand is singing
Thousands have fallen and thousands have fled
From his swings and parries, his lunges and his dives
My lord is a poet whose writings are delicate
His works bring me joy, his works bring me sorrow
For none can condense ours worlds into words quite as he
My lord is a watcher whose observations are measured
For so sharp are his eyes that they miss nothing
His sight is beyond mortality and the flesh
My Lord is asleep now, I know not when he wakes
I shall await him by moonlight with gladness is heart
Eventually the day shall be when we are no longer apart