Slipping through alabaster air,
Electric patterns tracing,
Blind haven of solitude,
A mute spectator to the atrocities.
Crying across meadows of possibilities,
Soaring low in mourning before grey beaches,
where the songs gasp their last note and lay down to die.
Dipping porcelain fingertips into crystal speckled lakes
which swirl with the remnants of dropped lyrics.
And as they fly, their spools unwind
A trail of breadcrumbs for those to follow
who dare to lose themselves along the way
of finding the truth behind the melodies.