It whispers gently on the breeze.
Washing up on shores like these.
Port light, star light in disguise.
The flames of which are fed our lies.
Wonder, horrors, bitter brains.
The rest of which go through our veins.
All these flames must know us well.
Them through which we bleed our hell.
Tastes like water, tastes like rain.
Standing, burdened, bent by shame.
Their eras passed and pillars folded.
Then lain flat by their devoted.
These blue acres till their plots.
Growing something. Given thoughts.
And now beholden to waking powers.
These the ones that made all hours.
Our lady parted, lightly dressed.
Now once absent once was blessed.
Shiny glasses filled with brine.
The salt and sulphur reign through time.
The green, glass windows shining high.
The light of which to all apply.
The threads of fate to us they tie.
Through them we live.
Through them we die.
-s.z (Foundations)
