Another morning passes, and I am filled with polimorphic sanity.
A thousand unrestrained brush strokes gently curling through the clouds.
And here I am, but a spirit bathed in the decedence of first light.
Where has that golden sunrise gone to?
As a child I would gaze up in wonder at an endless, liquid horrizon.
Shaping the morning in it`s own sacred inclinations.
And though I keep my eyes aimed skyward, the dawn comes only after my shadow`s last descent.
This journey shall be the keeper of fates,
and I am the alter upon which destiny is forged.