A name is but a name

Until it rolls on the tongue

As day and night roll in the sky;

A game is but a game

Yet still tolls the bell that wrung

What play and wright attempt to imply.

Rince my face as I float around

And the bubble of my past upon my heart.

Pop goes it, washing away the care

Flowing in weariness of travels far in time,

Too far for such small arms

To reach and grab around.

What have my dreams come to?

What am I to become?

May I still become yet?

Is the world ready to see me now

Or must I wait until sickness breathes it away?

The fabric has been worn to the bone

And so have I, I feel,

Despite the endless call of the sea

Still resonating far within.

Sometimes I can sense under my skin

The timeless threads pulling, giving,

Sails setting under a sun young still,

And other moments the flowers

Of Spring not yet withered

Beginning to falter under the summer breeze.

Must Autumn take this Fall?


As above so below,

As within so without.

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