Tight the way I like,
the chains of your fantasy,
in which you're the king.

Built on illusions,
the fort of patriarchy,
empty without me.

Within the hollow,
pines a bird, in the forest,
longing to be heard.

Off the distant peaks,
in the heart of valley stirs,
the sound of mountains.

Now it begins with the ocean - blue,
the heart of which
lies not in itself
but in the lapping waves,
foaming away at her feet.
Soundlessly calling.

In your ocean eyes,
ebb and flow, the rising tide,
crashing into waves.