It's 5:47AM.
Eyes heavy.
Hands weak.
Mouth dry.

I dreamt of us again.
The meadows.
The skies.

The softness of your skin.
The sound of your voice.
That taste of your lips.

"To be loved is to be free.
Maybe someday it'll be me."

Within the glass heart of man,
Lies a Secret unbeknownst to himself.
It rides on the back of carrion crows,
And rests on the frail strings of a violin.

Found in the generosity we provide to friends,
And the sorrows we share with enemies.
The death of an angel,
And the birth of a demon.

Carried by Gale Maidens,
It floats upon a cool Spring breeze.
Ringing the soft chimes of hope.

The Secret of Life.
Of Happiness.
Of Love.
Of Truth.

Whispered upon the waves of an ocean,
Drifting beyond the stars,
Into the vast unknown of the human soul.

Crystalline eyes of red, blue, and green,
Stand watch in the fields why Ravens fly.
The souls of their ancestors,
Feeding on the remains of creation's thoughts.

In a time lost place with only themselves,
The solitude of darkness knows no freedoms.
For only the light of an unknown realm,
Will break their shackles.

For when a rose loses its last petal,
Is it no longer a beautiful flower?
Was it even beautiful in the first place?
So easily forgotten.

Crystalline eyes forged from the ashes of Gods,
Never knew the beauty of their fields.
Fields where roses once blossomed,
Now a desolate land of withered stems.

Starlight wings white as snow,
Illuminating the night sky.
Will you take me?
Can I reach you?

The resonating sound of love,
Sends ripples through the ocean of my heart.
Once an endless abyss,
Now harbors summery waters.

Your words imbued with sunlight,
Drive away the most torturous thoughts.
As the notes of your dulcet voice,
Echo through the airways.

The rhythmic beat of your heart,
Like the ticking of a clock.
I hear it.
I feel it.
I need it.

Oh, bearer of radiant wings;
I continue to climb higher;
Continue to work harder,
Continue to stand taller.

I will fly with you;
I will reach you;
And I will touch you;
As you have touched me.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.