My voice is a storm-stricken sailor
Begging to float,
But there are no ships on the waves
And no light on the shore.
My heart is a flickering ember
Praying for flame,
But fading fast in the cold gales of December.
My house is a long hall of echoes,
And shadows, worn by no body.
My windows are painted, and the light overhead
Is a poor imitation of sunlight.
Outside, I can hear only the winds,
As they cackle and hector all night.
I sleep as a prisoner in my own cavern of rest,
And dream of blossoms in spring.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:26 AM UTC
My voice is a storm-stricken sailor
Begging to float,
But there are no ships on the waves
And no light on the shore.
My heart is a flickering ember
Praying for flame,
But fading fast in the cold gales of December.
My house is a long hall of echoes,
And shadows, worn by no body.
My windows are painted, and the light overhead
Is a poor imitation of sunlight.
Outside, I can hear only the winds,
As they cackle and hector all night.
I sleep as a prisoner in my own cavern of rest,
And dream of blossoms in spring.
