Hemlock in a bind, torn about the wrists,
Trapped in a gilded safe shackled to ropes of stone,
A black horse of turns and twists enthralls the frightened waif
Attempting to atone for her struggles and strife.
Tis freedom chased from life,
There are those of one mind whose faithless soul has gone,
What visage do they adorn? A silent lake of water still
Brings a strange glow to the mire,
The great hunt shall again go on far into the lights of morn;
To those whom chase beyond free will
Hope shall never be but fire.
Guarded is the lone heart against freedom tossed
However at what cost ?
Ghost riders in the sky follow the red sun.