For naught have&#39;if your life be true,
you ought to seek youth&#39;s remaining dew.
The red sea do you consume, with little room to fill for love to bloom.
Yet there are no warming hue&#39;s of a mother&#39;s instinctual cue. 

Far away have you sailed for me,
the messages of open static to interpret upon the sea.
Sang the tales of your adventure, but stuck with such indentures.
Phantasmagorical would be for thee, yet no words of who was he.

Were the days of Irreality, such a lazed maternal banality?
Why did it stick? The sword of duality?
Would death be meaningless? If it were my seasickness?
Hope is lost for the disappearance of my carnality.