No hand has reached, no mouth has begged,
No heart has bled for mine.
They pass me by, their gazes veiled,
Their lips spill not one line.

My name is wind upon their lips-
A ghost, a fading tale.
They seek soft shores and quiet tides,
Not women born of gale.

I loved in ways that shook the stars,
That made the thunder weep.
But none have stayed to know my depths,
Or drown inside them deep.

They want the pretty, not the flame,
The meek, not wrathful sea.
And I, a storm in corset laced,
Am far too much to be.

No man has carved my name in skin,
Nor knelt in midnight prayer.
No soul has ever lost itself
To find salvation there.

I whisper truths in ocean's tongue,
In moans the moon can't tame.
But still I walk with hollow hands-
No one has staked their claim.

So I, unwanted, rise each day,
My spine unbent, unbowed.
I am not made for fragile hearts
Nor men who fear me loud.

Let them chase their fleeting dreams-
Let silence kiss their bed.
I'll dance with fire, sail alone,
With roses for the dead.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Aeguary, in the year 986 AF.