As Winter's umbrage crawls and reaps,
And snowflakes wend through fitful sleep,
A mind will range to distant lands,
Where Dreams are born, where one's fate is in hand.

Downwards and past the Sun's chilly gleam,
Parous thoughts on the wing, they travel the Dream,
Over wood and through mist, then below soil Black,
No names or remembrance to beckon them back.

Dead.
Shorn and shattered, diffused through the loam,
Be not afraid, for this incohesion is your dowry.
There is freedom in dissolution, enough to ask:
What for might I be?
Though your canvas may seem only black upon black,
You yet hold the Colours of fate in hand.
Burning against the cold of 'Not' with the passion of 'Is'.
Alive.

Becoming and Form through stroke and through touch,
A burgeoning structure, unhurried, unrushed,
Rise free from the womb of ashes, soil, and dead,
Arise unencumbered, and perfect, and Red.

Greet the Spring Sun, and know that you greet Yourself,
There are things yet to do, still more Selfdoms to help.
One should always rise higher, for you never know what you'll be,
But the higher you rise, the more you will see.



Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 8th of Ios, in the year 508 MA.