Held onto the same place for centuries.
Then she wandered for a hundred years more.
This journey could not be explained to me.
She searched high and low, ahead and before,
She searched, untethered to a time and space.
Time, a circle; past, present, future, now.
More in the past than elsewhere know her face,
And more faces than memory allows.
After me there will be more, and more blood.
As long as she wanders and doesn’t stay,
There will be no waves of foes like a flood.
To this day, her name, mystery remains.
She’ll no longer humor my inquiries.
Being Immortal Unintentionally.
ChainsawPenguin 