A river runs through
The woods by which she slept,
And through her dreams.

Death stalks in these precious hours
After the fire is dead
And all sustenance gone.
The dew now settles beneath
Imaginary wings.

Wrapped tightly,
An interwoven cloak of
Violent heliotrope
Keeps her quiet,
An eye amongst the storm,
And while Gaia shrieks
And lives and dies around her
Silence is hers.

Dark paths
And darker ways
Are her life's blood.
Abandoned for better climes,
Left to sea and sand
And gut-wet rock
She has snatched existence
From the palm of impossibility,
And nourishes the hope
That bubbles like pitch from her heart.

As thorns in winter
As the curse of life
She flourishes
Where angels dare not walk.

Beneath the bough
Of diamond stars,
No warmth to shield her,
Feathers tear away
Like dying leaves
And her reckoning arrives.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Arios, in the year 182 MA.