Dew 'neath the eyes
become teasing images that lack substance
but I am sightless
my home is black, colored only for those who bring their lanterns,
never shifting, but drifting
turning accidentally back,
and I, not the right degree drift,
find a face I'd thought I lost-

don't wind the clock
or leave the key
where I may see it

if you insist,
if I am your guest,
give me rooms covered in seaweed from the oceans coffin
where I may drift unharmed, untouched

your rooms,
scorched by the warm ice,
giving views to the otherlands,
where motionless green beasts ponder their actions,
filled with water,
yet never willing to give,
spiking those that dare,
those, desperate and dehydrated enough to dare..
those are for the wild,
who need pain to quench their need for adventure,
mules in a constantly shifting land

no, I want cool floors of laminaria,
they'll squelch beneath these pale feet of mine,
and, as I gather dew,
calm my feverish scalp