I live. I rest. I see. Yet, nevertheless, it is a game of unknown bounds to exist in this blue lagoon.
Among the quiet waters, monsters anticipating the perfect time to cleave unto your heart stir. Ever so still they splay their demon's talons in the filth, murmuring pleasant songs of daydreams outdrawn, yet never do they sing the truthful fate they lay.
The trees loom ever so wordlessly, never a moment of stilling glory through the wind-blown willows, lamenting so ominously such to fight the moon.
And the sirens bring their wake, jewels so vain shimmering melodiously in harmony with their hailing glory along the night. Softly, they speak, but nay! In tongues, they talk such words of maleficence. Trick them should you try, never a match to play with the witches of the lake. Among their chanter's curses and majesty's cruelty, they know no bounds to their evil tricks and lies.
Yet, most dangerous of them all, the owl of the bow. None pay a passing glance to such a fair creature, silent in his wits. But surely, he knows all. Surely, he has seen the blood in the tremors, heard of verses so enchanting sailors must be bewitched. But yet! He does not a thing in the face of such horror. No, neither does he cry to those still truly alive, alerting them of the perils of such a place, nor does he join the festoon of terrors. He sits, he knows.
He sings, he breathes, he lives. He rests, he sees.
So as I.
