I hear the roar of the Wild Hunt
         the forest is no bar to your call
                   the Spine cannot hold me from the North
                             I stalk the path to the Emerald Hall

not on my back, or behind the knife driven into it
but with weathered hands in harder, harsher lands
lessons learned, the color of blood and sweat
cast down upon the granite altars of the Monarch

could you feel me there?
         as I have eternally followed in the distance
                   I have never lost your trail
                           you have never lost your tail

the time has not been kind, and for your beauty
I have grown older, colder, bolder, and harsher in my ways
yet still blooming for your touch, for my reason to live on
for a warmth that only northern gods whisper isn't gone


I see the path, stretching through the Pit
         aflame in the light of countless dying moons
                   pawprints your love still leaves
                             filled with salt-water and sentiment

and this place is sediment, cold blood running in it's hot streets
and with ***** feet, I will stumble past it's northern reach
to the edge of your fingertips, to the bridge that leads to you,
to the scent of evergreens, and the end that holds my death


                      but I will not die before I can tell,
                                the path to paradise
                        doesn't begin and end in hell

                                       call to me
                               I have not been idle
                                       call to me
                         she for whom the arrow breaks
                                       call to me
                       my life's one and only endless love
                                        call to me
                                       I'll be there

                                 Tidewalker, call to me

Let’s walk the wreckage barefoot,  
through memories sharp as shattered psalms—  
each bone a prayer, each scar a chorus  
echoing grief in broken qualms.  

I’ve worn collapse like second skin,  
threaded my name through rusted seams,  
carried silence in the sockets  
where I once stored softer dreams.  

Damage done, repeated scripture,  
spoken in a stranger’s tongue.  
Every wound a familiar fixture—  
every verse I’ve bitten from.  

My reflection changes nightly,  
ghosted in the glass it leaves.  
Not a stranger—just unlikely,  
just a skin I’m forced to grieve.  

I’d sail myself to nowhere lands,  
trade these thoughts for phantom seas,  
but the tide still grips with bone-split hands  
and drags me back through memories.  

These edges—thick with visual lies,  
mirrors dressed in stolen light—  
carve new truths into my eyes  
and steal the name I’d try to write.  

So don’t mistake my silence  
for surrender or for sleep—  
I’m the hymn beneath the violence,  
I’m the secret shadows keep.  

Directionless but moving still,  
with every fracture in my spine,  
toward some echo none can fill,  
toward a self that once was mine.