The Word

Words fly from my lips, like;
Winged harbingers of life;
Silver birds, of my innocence,
seek that place,
named as my childhood.
Bright streams and meadows,
cry for,
my return to your sweet shores.
Shall I rest there,
in my slumber, forever cast,
in quiet respose.
To lay my head, upon your breast,
far away from ill grown woes.
Would that I could truly know you;
Within the veil, of mystery.
To sail forever,
on a lost, and forgotten sea.
Alas, like all things mortal,
I know it shall not be.
So, I become now,
some ancient lore in history.