Wings of heaven,
oh carry me along...
Tired, destitute rest forlorn...
Eddies have flowed past,
reaching an ocean,
and the moss collects on stoic stones...
Slippery thoughts have yielded,
no direction, currents flow deep down...
What will the drops of water know,
struggle they may, but the stream is too strong...
And bereft, of its perceived sweet,
the tasteless drops reach the salty shores...
In waves of madness,
these eddies lost...
Moss grows greener,
on the stoic stone...
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