Arbaet

The rider calls, the winds reply,
A steed of void cuts through the skies.

Hooves like thunder, steps undone,
If the path is none, the path is none.

The door swings wide, the door stands still,
A dream of choice, a tethered will.

The sun twists low, its tendrils fall,
Unmaking worlds, remaking all.

The rider moves, the horse does gleam,
Through shadow’s breath and fate’s faint stream.

A spark, a tear, all threads sprung,
One door, one path, one whispering sun.

Then the rider calls, and silence replies,
If the path is one, the path is time.