I have woven great stories of how the winds may take this world and turn into dust. I have sung such songs like the birds may do. I have dressed in rags, in gold, in nothing but skin.

Yet, you seem only to know these simple people.

I have danced with the rain. I have grown a garden so grand it brushes the moon. I have been docile, like fire, like sand.

Even such, your eyes do not see me.

I have waited in this cavern, hidden in all these dreams for as long as time has given. I have painted this despair among the walls because it was not only a time ago you only favored the rising sun.

You told me, when the world was as new as these stories, that life would last until I would stop painting the sky in shades of cerulean. I have refused to stop- for only the belief that one day, these stories and songs and dress and dance and love will become the only thing you can see once again.

From then, it has been millennia. It has been my death and rebirth from the flames of rage, it has been moons so dead, so beautiful.

My skin has burned to ash, and I find myself reborn as not what I was. What wings took me across the sky now lay dead. What voice sang to the sirens alike, still as water.

You have not noticed.

As, while I have been and been, you have stayed upon your skin. You have not moved from your chariot since I could try to remember.

Yet, I am so close to you. I stand underneath your feet. Have I not been enough for you?

How much more must I burn before this fire beneath my skin can be laid rest?

It only seems so far. So close.