Always visions of other lands haunt my ravaged mind and the ghosts of old lovers swirl in the fog of my brain. Habits and routine are my captors, the jailers that speak to me of bounds, fences and walls, yet my soul flies on the wild wind, searching for a home. I long to burn across new terrain like a meteor crashing through the dull and nebulous layers of this tired earths' atmosphere. When shall I walk among the foothills of the Old Gods and feel...
Related Subjects
Poetry