With the melting of winter left behind.
So comes the rising of the summer tides.
Upon their wake, a presence unknown yet seemingly familiar.
She Made herself known with a silent cry for what was and as it is.
It is nevermore.
There we lie upon her wake bewildered and overtaken, by who I am.
For who am I?
To which you cry too in the early mornings upon the summers tide
Deep behind my eyes, I cry.
For...