She dances, possessed by the haughtiness
That inhabits the children of pureness.
She spreads her locks over her heart,
Eglantine and amber, equal in parts.
She cries for herself, in a cruel ******,
Her tears, flowing daggers in her soul of wax.

What are these insolent games she plays?
Teaching her shadows irreverent ways
And nurturing a hectic stillness.
What voices haunt her murmured boldness?
Her lullaby, pillowed by destruction
Hummed solely out of her own compassion.

She waves to her cousins, the silver lights,
Painters of the robe of the summer nights.
She burns ,as them, freckling the darkness
With a light, a fragrance, and a caress.
She is passion, a witness, a deity
Existing, not for light, but for beauty.