The path of my travails

I wish I could enfold your precious memories
Feel the eternal like the last cold day alive
Unite the past and future in our reveries
Immortal and inspired in thunder's height to drive

I wish our aeon to be lush and adventurous
With sober wanderlust and steady sense of home
The angel fallen woken as the rose
Is but the sign of love and lust
In the garden of loss

I wish you were my Atlantis, my lover
I shall become an eagle's rage to hunt and hover

And I wish he was your Wotan
In the Tideland
Your masterplan,
your maze,
horned rabbit-king,
your Gotham,
key to survival in my hand

And I could be that fertile and archaic
as your grandpa's tabatiere
on the table of mahogany,
fleur de sel, just a tale of relief,
your saving methadone,
a project of a future human
ruled up, detailed
like the Vitruvian Man in drawings

And in the end of my travails
Is there a hope for me?
Decades behind me, but I lived so low
I wasted misery but I loved so low
And I was not myself and I was never free
I can't remember merry summer day
I don't know what the happiness may be...

I wish our aeon to be lush and adventurous
With sober wanderlust and steady sense of home
The angel fallen woken as the rose
Is but the sign of love and lust
In the garden of loss

I wish you were my Atlantis, my lover
As I shall become an eagle's rage to hunt and hover

I wish I could forever dwell there in our preicous memories...