30 May 2012
GUNNINGIGAP
The sky calls to me with voices of amber, speaking of treasures as gold as the sun. The sky calls to me, but I can not answer. Sooner or later, the moment will come, I know.
When I sleep I visit worlds of wonder as old as the void or as young as the day. When I wake I watch them all retreat under the glare of the light that keeps them at bay so far.
The wind whispers with the wisdom of ages, hinting at secrets, giving us hope. The wind rustles over history's pages, driving us forward, ready to go or not.
Lingering shadows of some ancient dimension ghostly remain at the corners of sight. Wandering visions display some retention of the immortal, older than time itself.
Opuss № I