I'm a cold area, a frozen wasteland with six letters to keep it cool. Nothing grows, under this heavy weight, often compared to a feather, if you swap the second for an o.

I am a graveyard that never keeps names, each step a promise I will not remember. The sea confesses to me in violence and lullabies, the moon tugs at my bones like an old debt. I swallow wars, lovers, and glassed-over dreams, then shine as if nothing was lost.

I’m sometimes a fraudulent business scheme. Or a representation nutritional needs. Lastly, I’m structures found around the world, ancient, majestic, serene.

A sunlit stage where sand grains play, The ocean's roar, a song each day. Flip-flops meet, Waves retreat, Where castles rise and kids at bay.

The first half of my name and a slang for hello are one and the same. The second half is attained where Falcons and peaches hold the reign. Together they stretch you and strengthen. All the way down to your core. Breath work through the positions. Achieving flex and Zen galore.