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The smallest of objects, possessed in hand,
Only seem so small, a testament to flee,
To sojourn in a strange yet tame land,
In an attempt to imitate a fool's decree

In a single maelstrom, where the whirring lies,
There is nothing but acrostic aim,
As if this final undertaking is a noble's familial ties,
The resting temperament, a hall of lost fame.

To seek a dominion that awaits,
In pulse moving towards a foe in blind glee;
Forthwith from the cloudy gates,
Do you desire a new world to set you free?

A peak so high yet close to reaching near,
The most devious of a realm in a lasting fate;
The doubts bearing fruition of a mind so clear,
For the reprise is the utmost strait.