Travel the weather.

To where we are built of bricks and clay.

Let us speak of lost kingdoms and broken weapons.

When did the ghost of time bead on the rim of a shattered Scottish well?

Where in the piles of dead is there an ember that spans the seasons of war?

Ripples of sparrows dance with no more armor than feathers and grace.

Morning comes and I look to the water.

What my lady do you think?

Are we on the edge of nothing?

Do you feel the wounds of youth like rusty shells?

I am stripped of illusion and false glory.

I hurt for you, rainbow dancer.

I hurt for you.

I wonder do I cost the universe?

All of us are we a season of dust?

Called the sparrows tear.

~mliarrr