I clasp grains of ashen sand,
My eyes, gazing upon windswept lands.
I walk, scaling the golden shore.
My body--lifeless--descends through the floor.

I weep, amidst a moving meadow; to my sanity, I implore;
“Wake me, please, from this dream,” as I shudder before a taunting door, “For I have lost the trail, as it seems.
For returning, I have no means”

I wait; And receiving no reply, my mind, taunting, begins to pry;
My cheek rests upon a chilling stone floor;
In the distance, a phantom child cries (sending haunting rhythms unto the skies),

A shadow comes from the darkness, speaking: “A forlorn land, with one lone door. You must choose your course, or your grave, you dig for.”
The child, “Here-Lies,” vanished before my well-worn eyes.

To my reason, I beseech;
“Should I return to the weeping beach?”
I glance once more at this deathly state, and choose to pierce the morbid gate.

I approach, knocking at the abandoned door;
It swings open; my thoughts, decaying from the core.
A beam of air brushes past my face,
From my lips--a sigh of bliss;
I stroll, with tender grace.

Specks of sand swim through my feet,
Warmth descends; A healing sheet.
I see a shape draw near; A beauty that I adore.
Heretofore, my wish was to live no more;
But now, I hold in my arms, my perfect paramour.
And now, I long for the roar of the golden shore.