Silence, and magic will obtain
In small steps.
A handful of light
Is the cure for the abyss of a hollow spirit.
Finely-crafted footsteps intermingle with
Subtle twitches of the eye
Doubt is a jaded bird with unleavened wings
That flies within range of the vengeful and the ravaged.
How may pieces remain
Of the original pulchritude forlorn,
The smiles that once incited growth through
Tenderness and restraint?
The beloved writhes and and begins to glow
Like incinerated dust,
Its flowers turned into themselves in shame.
Glory will be had
In the past,
When the fog was new,
And it hugged you timidly.
Art: “A Cornfield by Moonlight with the Evening Star”