Mist has veiled the sea,
which once reflected the skyline,
which once reflected her fierce eyes of neutron stars,
this sea, which once gleamed with the shimmering dawn.
The waist of the hourglass clogged with its sands,
grain by grain the hours turned to years,
years convicted to this silent pain, upon these wretched wastelands,
with the echoes of her voice striking as lightning bolts on my ears.
Just a stenching mire is left, from a once majestic sea,
yet her goddess awaits, within this glass-cased heart,
as a mirage entwined with the hazes of light from distant suns,
a wraith from times of different firmaments, the ones before the eternal dusk.
For stars did not dwell the skies before the mist,
the night did not fester its swollen skin until the flail swung,
for those eyes of glittering day, were now gone,
and only acid has been wept upon this pool of tears.
And now that the dice has rolled and landed on all of its six sides,
the sacred astra has gazed once more upon this ghoul,
and amidst the smoke and thunder, her voice has echoed,
my beloved sapphire once more lights the firmaments and make them tremble.
Alas, the crystal casing that once kept this heart from throbbing,
is now reduced to shards, and this appendage of flesh and blood,
has found once more the ancient wounds of her departure,
wounds which never truly healed, memories which never truly left.
Despondency fills once more the dried sea,
as its zephyr ruthlessly covers the festering wounds with salt,
the strings were pulled, and once more, the veil was lifted,
the persistence of the memory stabs and swirls its dagger into the guts of my nostalgia.
And now the orchids bloom and extol the beauty of this peaceful silence,
but tomorrow they will dry and rot, should the times be mercyful,
we will have the bliss of their beauty once more,
yet the day might never come.
Shall the hurricane be mercyful upon my orchid, my sapphire,
for now entwined in smoke and thunder, I cling to the day she has bloomed,
even if the stars in the firmament are a bitter memory of the time my garden remained dried,
and the days long gone when it bursted with life,
yet as the day fades I plea for her next flower to be born.