How the tides spin to thee, how aloft from clouds not earthborn, the shores between eternity and all the sun shines pon today bring not forth the release of knowing.
I dreamt of universal halls, yet my children were not there gathered, nor in the village could I hear them sound out with the gulls of May.
What stories we imagine when we are alone.
Friends disturb me with their sympathies, they mean well, yes, but often all I feel in words and glances of return is to punish back with burden.
Sometimes its good to live away, isolate from social pastures where in denizens spend months apart from the land and harbour. Tis like a long winter sleep and neither light nor darkness extends from beneath an idle moon.
I cherish her in memories yet these thoughts perish me. Awakening from them is like a thaw. And the bell sang its sound yet it was not a sound, but a connection to another world.
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