The fog seems to have ran its course.
Away from shore.
Too far away to remember.
Lost amongst the waves of navy ships. Somewhere in the tropics...
Far from that place I once called home,
Now I run, head straight against the wind.
Swim against the tide.
No current will deny.
Like a sylvan tree left to wither,
Amist the white, icy snow on the top of a given mountain, on the day of a given cold winter...
But hope is not forgotten. Not yet frozen.
Her smile I still can see,
Eyes, though long and shadowy, still trigger a spark of glow...
Hidden behind that tired glance.
Despite the candles burnt with deadly memories,
Or the second calling for loss within the forthnight,
I confess that Death rambles all around.
A part of living, a part of being.
It trembles to no one.
But I dream her strong... I feel her strengthing.
We come... we go.
We travel... we rest.
We wait... we miss.
We hope, we dream.
What does not kill, strenghtens. What we love binds us.
Sand does not make a beach, but it lets the sandclock run its course.
Water does not make a fountain, but it makes the river drive its course.
Truth be told amongst the stars,
That we cannot see beyond the night.
That the moon does not always shine so bright.
And that the path is likely dark and alone.
I'm there with you.