They say, I am mightier than the sword It’s true, but only if the enemy can read.

I bind and mend with a sticky embrace, sealing secrets in a silent race. My roll spins round with adhesive grace, holding things in their rightful place.

A dismal space, both cold and bare, where light is scarce and none would dare. With walls of stone and air grown still, its a place that breaks the strongest of wills.

A type of desk A Beatles song A Beatles album A Beatles movie

I am the final breath of a roaring fire A grey, soft ghost that cannot tire I am light enough to fly on the wind Yet I mark the place where the tree has sinned I am both the end of the flame And a tall strong wood that shares my name