The Search Of Disembodied Cries

A cry inside a dream so beautiful
It was wet and cold
On our journey
Into unborn thoughts
Following the voice
Tonight, unto the realm which nothing grows
Covered in clouded gloom

The rain has halted, to mournfully drip
Natures instruments play
The deep dream of relief
The human sleep, a warped lullaby
Fighting not to be a forgotten, lost spirit
Yet the undisturbed
Playing along the deep void of death
Will the grave be unlocked?
And of the soul?
The cold alter the only bed
Return now unto the world
Or haunt to an untraceable, unreached end

A feeble cry awake
Of a better age
This pool of dreams, the water blackened
The aura drops, wanes for the soul that tires of its search
The voice, may of an early, better age
Drifting, in vain?
Misting breath as a icy lake
The key of knowledge, lost, fades
The theory, the grasp, eternity

A quest, a thirst for knowledge
Astral luminosity intensifies being
Near to spheres of spectral wonder
A lifetime, to consume, to fear
But merely but fear itself?
In darkness, hate, the winter
Once there was hatred
Once was bitter cold
These wintered plains lay untouched, drift in thought
Feelings touch, years will pass

Looking toward stars unseen
Slowly I drift; in analysing immortal dreams
The voice, the sound, an unknown
So beautiful within the realm of ourselves
Awake to see the moon
Walking into the woods
Awakened; we finally see the voice we followed.

Ian V. Seymour ©2012

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