I am twisted in the roots
of an unborn melody.
A flower-seed's hunger

waxing without prowess;
an ousted blossom
swept undertow in bloom,

a wistful womb unmoored from shore
for more than forty-four forgotten forms
while endless seas replete and maraud.

No lack, just cyclical cadence
unlaced by patient-paced hands;
a sojourn spun bidden to writhe-

a story untold, a song unsung,
a dream undreamt in time.