
You are azure silk, turning in circles around your form,
the fabric dancing to music only I hear.
You are a flourish, the end to a divine symphony.
The audience clamours for more.
You are the potential and matrix of an unknown code.
You are the belief in something intangible.
You leave the wanton faithful writing stories in your name,
and the unbelievers lingering on a thought.
You are everything wished for, and all that is reviled.
I desire you during thunderstorms and dark dreams,
and taste you when the air is sweet.
You are the discarded plaything of a growing child.
You are the autumnal leaf, before it falls from tree’s grace.
You leave me in a state of prayer,
forever calling upon the purity of Winter.
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