Parched leaves whistling past the mines
Of which left lined dry on the sound land,
I have been longing to hear that voice
That has been fairway crafted on ringing.

Promptly tying up those white lilacs,
As raw edges found purely uncut
Bestowing what are know as shackles,
For the cursed dawn waging wars.

Silencing what flared wooded cues,
To the ogle fear not to be unkind
With an unprescribed rune drawn,
Cosmos miserly fading faraway.

Subtle betrayal fell short on our hands,
Recasting what was already shown
For your triumph boundaries to wane,
Having yet to whirl withering.

Dreading to feel the warmth of liberty,
Hinting anything but apprehension
Sprouting from the unknown,
The town which we call “Avalon”.

To whom tomorrow may come,
Indulging yourself into your wimps,
Borders trailing railguns in red ether
Only to flicker a persona in glee.

While the dime sky stubbornly sores up,
Once or twice, prepared to recline
Inclined to certainly unfold an advent,
Dancing to the glaced melody.

Can you hear the pale thrash bluster?
Faint as the wind kissing the sunlight
Though leaving nothing empty-handed,
A place of us sighting ephemeral.