There is fire where the oceans run deepest
A melting pot of wanting, waiting, steady.
Still, I dream of stabbing ogres, keenest--
Knives sharpened thin and ready.

My blood decays within like pricks of sand,
Trickling streams, a rivers-worth of my desire,
To let my lips hum the song sung by hands
A thrill to feel life as it expires.

Where is Guilt, an old shadow who claimed my friend?
Does she hide? Has she left? Does she care?
Guilt ran with the air that danced with the end
So far, she left to fly, a coward -- her own affair.

There is fire where oceans run the deepest,
A melting, bubbling, wanting pot made ready.
Here, I dream of stabbing Stillness
With knives and blood, sharpened steady.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Sarapin, in the year 980 AF.