Wherein I wander my troubled mind, dreams and ideals lost to the mist. Do we walk now where I think and feel, or is it but a passing fancy?
So far we travel, so far do our steps take us but the passage of time and land seems naught more than a vivid dream calling us back to the comfort of slumber. There is warmth there, buried deep within memories which elude us by daylight. A feather-light embrace from one so strong. A breath expelled in the softest of sighs. A look, a smile, a kiss most chaste; meaningless but for the brow upon which it is bestowed. Laughter and song, tea and cakes, banter and silence. All these merge and swirl; blurred images melded together into such a muddled mess in the waking hours, yet so compelling by night.
Some days my waking brings tears of loss and longing.
But ah, they whisper, chasing such pictures away. Ah, put them aside. Childish thoughts for a lonely crow so ragged. Painful dreams to haunt our tender bird. Fly now, fly!
And fly I do, bourn aloft on wings of nothing and tides of no-one; an illusion of life untamed.
Bank left, they say and left I go.
Bank right, they hiss and right I turn.
Now stop.
