I am the silhouette of oaken limbs upon dawn's summer dress,
the gaze of waning moon in night's surrender.
I am the fog that rests its tired wings
upon the fertile bones of souls that slumber.
I water such spirits so they may grow again,
so they may cherish their bloom yet again,
close within the clutches of aged hands.
There is no greater avarice I may possess
than for the gold your luminescent eyes outshine,
the gold those roses suffocate in thought malign,
an ore that beats and breathes, drowns in the blood
kept fluent in your river Styx;
I am greed in that regard,
for in this world I am the universe,
the glimpse of star dust glittering on the wing of hummingbirds-
and in this microcosm, I am just another pseudonym,
for I can never be the wind behind your hair,
Nor the subtle peak within your lyrical laughter;
I am lost within this perpetual paradox.
