The wayward singer of old,
Carrying musings upon his breath.
Whispers of a dream yet untold,
A light advances, the bane of death.
We burn to find our frivolous yields,
End-time wishes through where our pain lingers.
As crying bastions fill cornucopia fields,
Fire and water pull at these fingers.
An earthen mistral, a hurricane upon strings,
Find the wind tunnels of my mind.
I kneel in mourning for unnoticed things,
These roots I see, deeply do they bind.
© Sayer Teller