I walk in the winds
Sword in hand, unfamiliar
A back roll through bridges covered by assassins
To be unseen

The exodus lays open yet its majesty
Is not its literature
But art, engraved like that of a tombstone

The corridors red and oak-lit, carpeted
And pure magic

The power ups work with
The right angle
A back flip onto my feet

Till the dungeons cry
Dead oceans
And ferries of the undead

Through the skies and the seas
Whales and eagles,
Running,
Sword in hand.

I breathe.