Should I walk a thousand years in search of beauty as I have found,
And if my tears could find their way to salted sea,
Would my trembling limb be steadied by the flower I carry with me?
For if the darkest clouds, weighted by burdens of my pain, suspended high above, released the tears within upon the plain,
Could I swim forever, or only in a memory remain?
How could so small a blossom, frail and bent by torrents in her time, survive to call the name of I before I was to die?
Is it we who find these gifts bestowed, or are they truly destiny or fortunes that are told?
Is it chaos or is it planned? How did so pale a flower blue fall into such a weak and weary hand?
The horizon distant offers no direction, the past, once a future from a present, sits among ruins of ancient memories, fading with the waning moons.
Oh to travel through the layers of the pages we have writ, to insert ourselves into the chapters we see fit.
How can a memory be re born, altering our tale, so as to change the past, and therefore our course upon we present sail?
To think if minds could bend time as we dream, or travel through the cosmos as we drift on pillows cold!
How then would I have found this blue flower, before I was too old.
