Whisper archane to my thoughts
Wind of gales
To bend boughs of oaken wood

And there I stood
Patient among the grove

Alone

A prisoner to a world I can't call home
Driven by rage turned sour
In my Hour of solitude

Tomorrow's ghosts
Lust and live today

So fleeting in their time

*So magnificent...

I usually write when it's raining
When it's raining I'm usually right
Wrote my heart on my sleeve while complaining
When and why weave the unknown archane art
Without measure of meaning or pleasure
Above and beyond anything we thought
Outside of the encircled we're drawing
With all wonder as is fervantly caught
Bringing forward a motion of knowing
Beyond knowing mercy as serverity's stair
Reunification of all being
Exhalation from and into the aer