As the chill wind begins to wail,
A hurried step upon the trail.
With shadowed cloak and whispered fate,
They plot their move - absquatulate!

No ties to bind, no chains to hold,
No debts unpaid, no tales retold.
A fleeting ghost, a restless spark,
Vanishing swiftly into dark.

To abscond with grace, to leave so light,
No backward glance, no need for fright.
Some say escape, some say to roam,
But some must flee to find their home.