In an icy depth between Sky and Death
I crept in search and often times, I met what I had begun to forget.
The Misery casts its shadow long to reach the far ends,
like a Song to stay to Histories long forgot.
Crows, black as Storms of the Reaper,
As the itch to the sting, Cursed are the Crows that fly my path,
For they stay too long!
With a devious wrath must I try to reject them,
But the Cold of my inside, far warmer than this place, is nothing too cold
For a bird of Illusions such as this.
I must fall in your trap cunning winged thing,
For Adventure my feet step to question and walk to the trap of reflective wings.
To sling up my heart, might it fall to the Ice to Shatter; that I should breathe.