Thrown into the sea, I tightly hold onto myself. But once I let go, My poison will kill the thunder itself.

Often I’m debated, determined a fallacy or legacy. Some find me essential. Some find me obtuse and ridiculous at times. Everyone fawns over me for my beauty for I am made by the hand.

Walt Whitman said it best: keep your face to the sun, and this will follow. Only one figure is known to have lost it, though he chased it. We all have one, and sometimes more than one, at the same time, but we also have none.

First five are a type of music, one blamed for satanic influence. First eight are a type of material, containing many elements below it. With the last two, I’m complete, a band of fame, like a moth to the flame.

Feline eye, Roman nose, Pericles in perfect pose, Agate rolls, Steely strays, Gorgons glaze, by glowering gaze