the tower

shimmer in a streaming veil, led by naught but heart, unto far tower she sets sail, from former shades depart, huddle then within a cloak, at sea the winds are cruel, the torrents and the tired yoke, as folk we're made but fools, she'd heard a story long before, when starlight filled her eyes, of dark designs and iron doors, and birdless, crimson skies, recurrent visions as a child, the spirit of beatitude, the sky as some insipid smile, still scurvy or malaise imbued, wayfaring happens deep within, as response unto call, these feast or famine days we're in, the emptiness of halls, in houses built upon ideal, with all now out at sea, searching for a tower that's real, or may yet come to be...