Canto Four ~ It is Crone’s Day and Gundhag’s dead carts arrive at the bastions of Garland Legion on the southeast wall of the capital city of Laurá Luné.
She carries with her the infant boy wrapped in rags. The wounded men upon the carts are in greater number than is her custom in bringing to the details of healers that now pour forth from the walls of Garland Command, the largest and chief of legions in the empire. It would appear she makes a point.

Should life send you wandering
out, and about at twilighttime,

your world could change immediatly
or stop cold, on a dime.

that pathway, that one chooses
will be a lesson learned,

one road will be less travelled
the other, you'll get burned.

Should this twilight force hit you
I can't emphasise, enough;

you're going to pay profusely
for your demons in the rough.

What you have to offer
gets split into two ways,

It's really sad
When family care and
Most likely understand, but
you can't help feeling overwhelmed
by the disappointments of life

Feeling hopeless
you can't tell them your sorrows
because they're too trivial, selfish,
childish, and self-centered

Been told too many times to put others first,
but when trying hard to do that,
the mental challenges it takes to empathize,
makes it harder to grasp whether thoughts
and ideas are right or wrong

I dance to melodies both bright and swift
diminished only by the rising sun
and yet, within the swirl where chances sift
I struggle with my smile when song's begun.
I stumble when my dreams and heaven meet,
as "fancy free" and quicker dancing feet
will join the dark to scribe my written word,
and blend its voice to song of mocking bird.

this could be our
documentary
soundtrack would be
the tv you leave on
how every night
the orphan of us
grows lonelier
inside its shadow

here, clothes
remain in suitcases
we fear hanging
preferring bruised
from travel

the manager
tells us
previously
she was beautiful
before the hammer struck
before the man
smashed open her head
and broke it apart
as you undress me
i observe
the brushstrokes of blood

Canto Three ~ Torgándon, The White Salt Cliffs, tower in the present day to heights beyond the clouds.

your eyes and mouth
don't match
it gave you
an off-centered
look

we argued
made up
made love
walked in storms
dripped rain
made love again
discussed my country
falling into the ocean

your room was beautiful
i forgot his face there
guilt came after we ended
although i never thought
an explanation was needed

i am filled with ghosts
yours and mine
i have opinions on
the death of death
and love, if
that's what we had

Oh wind with your mighty fists,
who speaks of frozenness;
who sleeps inside her throat,
the singer's voice melts the iron
inside my bones,
melts it into a river of faces,
long ago.

Oh wind who whispers broken syllables
through young-green leaves,
weaving at unseen stars:
poets of the past, hanging bright
in their next season;
a slow waltz inside a galactic dream,
or perhaps a plot of demons.

and like the frenzy of madmen
you've been stabbing it
and stabbing it
and stabbing
yet nothing dies
directly related to your fury
the world does not
desecrate itself
anywhere near
how a whore does
when
no matter how she tries
she will never be
that small girl with
her hand in her mother's
the smile on her face
and the promises of
bigger things

Tick - tock,
Sounds the dying hands,
Like bells that toll rife,
In ripened, chilly air,
And hands that stoop to fell
The seasons weary run.

Dust and dirt and minds,
And broken things reply
The token sounds:

Tock-tick-tock...

Again, again, in ceaseless
Strains chorused
From every waking yawn,
Till the lull of sleep approaches
Once again...

Decreed forever to make us dance,
Like foolish puppets,
Helpless brothers;
Hapless beings of chance,
Cousins of a controlled race.