Tune of a Poet

Onward past the waning trees,
swimming by the blinding breeze,
walk soft approach the sands,
wash the seas with bloodstained hands.

Climbing high beyond all reach,
into the maws of beasts impeached,
swallowed down by streets of gold,
but this escape remains untold.

So here I am above ashed roots,
drunken on forgotten fruits,
blackened up by a big white lie,
hoping for proof that I am I.

A drowning whisper that weeps and moans,
that dances and sings to raindrop tones,
wrapped and crawled up my spine,
to become mine, oh, mine.