The Lady Randalin

I’m no grim student of the sword.
I study the arts with joy,
For the honing of my faculties,
That my sharpest wits employ.
But never have I given thought
To the peril that I’m in,
Until I dared to try the steel
Of the Lady Randalin.

Her face and gentle countenance,
Framed by golden hair,
Delights the eye and thrills the heart
To see her standing there;
A smile that would melt tempered steel,
And confound the wits of men.
She’s the Golden Rose of Talmere,
The Lady Randalin.

But don’t be fooled when you see her,
By the beauty of her face.
When she draws steel she’s a predator,
With a tiger’s killing grace.
The sweeter that she smiles at you,
The more she lures you in.
This fair rose has the sharpest thorn,
The Lady Randalin.

I met her with my blade in hand,
To try her wits and skill,
Confident I could match her sword
With my talents and my will.
With lightning strokes she gave the lie
To my hopes, and I gave in.
How quickly was I conquered
By the Lady Randalin.

There lies my rapier on the ground,
Cast at the Lady’s feet.
Yet still, there’s opportunity
To celebrate in defeat.
My sword will not avail me;
I must take out my pen
To ever hope to touch the heart
Of the Lady Randalin