They never said you could anchor.
This land is filled with ravens' nests,
forests of bells, here,
at your feet
so purple deep
no one dares touch
Don't turn your head back towards sea.
Afar, bonxies* feast on your fears
in ravaged skies...
They call you "rogue",
lost inside dusk;
Don't ask petrels for directions.
And when your eyes turn into rust,
raven claws snatch your will to smile -
tear to pieces light in iris, your fragile wings on your shloulders.
Let me gather all your feathers tarnished with red.
In Arcania, no cliff hanger;
we're free to love,
run inside waves that never sting
or burn our skin,
as we drown our tears
© Nat Hall 2010