Writing is not a passion

or an emotion

but the ocean is deceitful in commanding

as is the cow;

pieces of a heart

I know can not be mine,

 and yet I still dream

of things unknown,

in heart and soul,

where there be dragons,

past an era of worry,

for I am you and you are me. . .

and dragons we be

Miles and miles of ice,

blanket my face,

and nothing can seem to melt

this lock,

until a soldier I be,

and in being become that which I fear

. . .

by the face of an enemy

I leave my prison upon,

to hopefully lead him

back the path,

 

upon which I lay

. . .

for he is mine and I am his

only in the fault of sin