Far past snow-capped Tundra mountains are birds,
Singing of sailors who've wed their shadows, unheard.
Singing,
Eaten by dreams of every two, anything joined as one word.

The ocean is the child of rain,
Drops that come from eyes hopeful, then strained.
Eyes drained dry of sight,
Singing,
Watched by time that flies out at night

Surrounded by mist so thick is a flag of gold,
Shining, different from the rainbows of old.
Singing, sighing
A song, different, a song I've refused to hold.
Different but the same,
Singing,
Not of the others,
Not of dreams,
Not of sailors,
Nor birds,
But of me,

Singing,
untethered,
free.

Far past the snow that joins Tundra mountains are birds,
Singing of a sailor who've left quiet, without words.
All the ghosts tethered to her heart,
In peace,
Singing,
Dreaming of golden flags raised high in the seas,
Singing,
Alone, with the wind, with the trees.
Singing,
Alone
With me



Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Chronos, in the year 979 AF.