You were the vision in a dream,
wearing shadows of unwary verve,
The phantom bearer of a gilded cup
of milk and honey unreserved.
You were the hope from loves consumed,
keeping time from turning in regret,
An overture to perfect skies of blue
that carry bliss with grief bereft.

You are a child of consequence,
born amidst the fire and the flood,
Burning with desires desiccating
fields of green and drying blood.
You are a child of consequence,
raised amidst the salt and loaded dice,
Crossing stars of fortune as the keeper
of beloved names from blight.

You will be dreamt of once again,
rhymed and sung in tangled winds,
The mystic muse of pseud bohemians
and the catalyst for jaded strings.
You will ascend above the throes,
dressed in scars and golden scales,
If the stitches hold and keep you lowly,
for the dais at the top is frail
And the scattered echoes, lonely,
and the fall shall doubtless death entail.
So, spread your wings, beware the sun,
and onto dreams and fancy now, set sail—

O, my fated heart, set sail . . .

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