He was a dreamer, but not of his dreams
rather of Pulses in his head,
hearing not his own screams.
Only the creaking of an ancient bed
As a mother lay her child to pale sleep.
Then he drifts in a horrid leap
To a hundred manned ship at sea
Each member begging to every deity.
What answer they recieved, he'd never know,
for now he stood in Kalvala's deep snow
As lovers, on each side of a field
Yearning both by scars to be healed.
Pulled in his skin, he wakes, breathless.
In life they're all but worthless.
But was it life in which he was laid?
Which way was he released?
If his breath was taken, the voices paid -
Or in this paradoxical increase?
What is silence mongst the deceased?
