that now beholds my small soul in its hands
and tumbles me amongst the leaves of fair forgotten folk
who reside deep in within the grottos of myth.
I fall, I spiral, I twirl, I turn, I fly without wings,
without the aspiration of wind,
or the flutter of feathers breath.
No agnel of another age comes to catch me
and in falling find, that there is no bottom,
to the anguish of a life lost.