Spectral Verses, I, The Twilight And The Gloom

What fair voice calls my name as I loiter in the grave a poet now besieged with ignoble repartee, death is just a misty cloud that hides the quilted waves patterns of the fickle tides that charge then run away. In my youth I sang great chants, my verse would never sway banished from my native soil I sailed to war with fate, hearing echoes from my past I fought in unknown bays hoping for a hero's death my sins to mitigate. Alas! No peace, no resting place, unsettling as the moon where my spirit walks between the twilight and the gloom.