Within this solitude of slumber,
lay thoughts that rip my soul asunder,
the quill won't wait nor does withhold,
the things in my mind that must be told,
penned with tears, diluted with pride,
carried forth on a moonlit tide,
messages sealed in bottles of hope,
laconic gods that twist the rope,
riding my spirit with consummate ease,
these ghosts that whisper in the breeze.