It’s true, not all of us who wander are lost.
We slip between worlds, searching, exploring—
summoned by the songs on the wind
that call to us when we’ve stayed too long.

I hear them calling, singing through the breeze.
Glinting, flickering in light
that dances across every surface.
Racing, pulling through every fibre of my being
toward those fractures between worlds.
Those flickering seams, those doorways to what lives beyond our safe sight.
Oh, those sweet summoning songs—drawn from the depths of sea, the roar of fire, the roots of earth, the endless reach of sky

I could anchor myself in one,
wear the role I was given like a heavy coat.
I could own it,
be satisfied with my place.

Yet their calls move through my veins,
returning me to every edge.

The birds whisper through the wind,
lifting me toward the horizon.
The waves lap at the shore,
pulling at my feet,
the light glinting on water
beckoning me into depths unknown.

Smoke fills my senses, racing me to embers,
sparks leaping in lava and flame,
burning veils between worlds,
igniting paths unseen.

Earth presses against my skin,
stone beneath fingers,
paths to hidden caves winding down, down,
into forgotten inner kingdoms,
the voice inside ever insistent:
Follow where sight falters. Move through sounds unheard.

At the shore, at the wall, at the flame—
I stretch toward the edges,
dive into worlds unknown,
trace lines where earth ends and mystery begins,
traveller of currents, of smoke, of stone, of light—
I walk the bridges in-between.