Thoughts etched in obsidian,
Wisps of color,
Like a jade curved smith,
To hew out crevices of the wast'd rock,
Wind washed and sand clothed,
Pulsating taking solitude,
With angels milling about,
Deceptive in their demeanor,
Like new born locusts,
Death is taken captive,
The captain calling out a-ship, a-shore?
Golden waves play harps in the summer,
And dance a deathly knell in mid-winters reverie,
Yet in all the colored hue,
A heart finds no solacing bosom.