Winter's chill courses about me,
The fae feelings of youth bested by irony.
Like clay, it returns to that which it was,
My hands no longer at the potter's wheel.

It turns.
My home is back where it had been.
It turns.
I find myself where I began.
It turns
And tempts my hands to guide it once more.

The wind whispers into my ear:
It would be ever so easy this time.
The clay reaches out to touch me
But I refuse to take its poison.

It writhes.
Dust settles on the Domus.
It writhes.
Dust settles upon my eyes.
It writhes
And I turn a blind eye.

A race howls for unfound vengeance.
A cause demands a paragon.
A memory stirs within the streets.
A heart whispers that it can't give.

It sighs.
Another fails to reach it.
It sighs.
I stand upon the summit.
It sighs
And hides behind a gilded mask.


Penned by my hand on the 4th of Letum, in the year 565 AD.