Between the fabrics of time that exist within unmarked territories,
we venture deeper into the trenches of the dark with my adventurous bow-and-arrow and your sword,
awaiting the signs that show us the way to the tulip fields.
From the sea of starlights to the dawning of the honeyed sky,
we ride horseback without any care for the forests burning behind us with the secrets of those who never made it out, forsakenly disappearing as their bounties discount through the eons.
For months afoot, we travel through the mystic lands to the trenches of the water fields.
As our frugality mixes with the declining rationality of our sanity, we grow near and dear to the scythe of death — tasting its metal as we save each other. Neither of us will make it out, though; we’ve made it too far — cracks filtering throughout my bow and your sword.
As we lay waste under the oceanic starlights and honeyed skies, we count our adventures and fantasies; unknowing that our tulip fields were merely a mirage divided between our breaths and the judgment of the grim reaper and its whispering forests.
As we lay waste, we divulge further into this fantastical expedition without an end.
As we lay waste, our souls dissipate into the air and twirl with the currents of the wind.
As we lay waste, we weave into the fabrics of time that exist within unmarked territories, marking them as ours.
Marking them into the tulip fields we never reached,
marking them in our own fonts of starlit seas and the skies we kiss to create honey.
Marking them as the sanctuary for those once forsaken, and for those who remain foolish enough to venture further than the distance we could have ever made.