Oct 24, 2005 20:56
Flowers grow fermented by our ancestors, being kept on top of thier graves as a reminder that life will continue after the mighty have fallen, hopefully with no more fighting, but that dream has never been seen. Becoming ever increasingly cold as December approaches I think of how the breeze envelops and moves throughout the night, going where not even the human imagination can pierce at times, but always is available within your very home often by fan, anytime your heart desires. I see flowers on my heart's grave, the earth warmed by rays of sunlight. The nights breeze lets me see feelings growing, while my spirit reincarnates on this mortal plane to show that I am deserving of the honor of Asgards gates.
Be still your beating heart, not now, not yet, my love.
Our time will come, the chimera no longer holds me.