In the fields where the bodies stand,
and each irretrievable stride or quivering stroke
brought closer the edge and plains beyond both;
here the protector reneged and the helping hand was dropped.
Of monsters and fireflies the child dreams,
and the gloom turns yellow and bright.
Of monsters all and the flies deceased the falling see;
before he lands where his protector was,
and nature resolves loneliness with blunt impact
and innocence with the deals of a soul already sold.

In the fields where the bodies run,
I feel their stirring, the thrum of a poignant note.
The inevitable comes with her soft, plodding approach;
the children see sprites instead and their legs dance in circles
but these apostate limbs of mine still go forward.
Pitiable captain, tug not so hard at dead-locked controls;
there is not but rocks into which an old ship goes.
The explorer has marked your dragons here,
the tempest swirls with bright fury in a world unknown
and knows not of the placid, the quiet, the dull,
that which is all we’ve every known; but knows full well
the water upon which the tired hearts fail.