The definition of freedom, to the chains of time... Enslaved as we are, repeating this rhyme. I hum to myself the song of the storm and wish to my God that my cold heart is warmed. The rays of the sun do not pierce my flesh, so inside is cold, bitter, distressed. Where are the angels to wing me to sleep? Where is the comfort when for you I weep? Death, parting, passing: you to the grave. The Fates laugh at the tears; this is not what I craved! Hearts afire, but mine stone cold: My eyes like windows, closed to the world... And as my aurora becomes your dawn, so does my mind accept you are gone... Through the blinding rain that falls from my eyes, I watch the tempest in my soul as it flickers and dies.
Poetry
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