You are he,
who fought upon fields of gold,
pockets lined with sunshine.
Stars were shot, to sputter and die,
Do you still wish you could fly?

I am she,
who escaped the loom.
Ever reading the world's thread.
The breaks, a sorrow. A respite, a break.
Even with no icing, I'd still lick the cake.

We are they,
who stand against the churn,
Too solid to crumble, too dense to see.
The time we spent drawing from the well,
Was the only thing we ever had to sell.


Penned by my hand on the 6th of Phaestian, in the year 890 AF.