My home beneath the bending trees,
within' the forest black -
forsaken like the breadth of me,
with hardly any tact.

These aching legs would have me run,
discarding all my truth -
towards wanderlust and setting suns
my folly is my youth.

To taste and touch and feel and be,
to see and grasp and own-
exploring possibilities,
I wandered lost, alone.

Through streets of gold and hateful fog,
I touched on chaos too-
exhaling lessons, chugging grog
in Cyrene tried and true.

Targossas was a bitter pill,
I tried so hard to down -
the raging river made me ill,
the fire pulled me down.

A burning need inside of me,
A thirst I cannot slake-
A lonesome dinghy lost at sea,
An echo of an ache.

When hungry eyes tell lovely lies,
betraying such a feast-
A famished heart could compromise
for just a bite to eat.

My broken legs have lain me low,
I crawl back on my knees-
and solace in the overgrowth
fulfills my every need.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Daedalan, in the year 805 AF.