Lighthouse cloaked in wavelike fog
which drifts like a silver procession
through the ferns and evergreens.

Spectral rivers of autumn leaves
spiral across the rocks.

Phantoms of white, smoky halos
tremble through a willow
dancing in holy midnight.

Lindworm draped by blackened seas
brewing thunder and hurricanes
to batter the haggard land.

Hummingbird on a foxglove petal
sipping from a nectar pool.
Our watercolor jewel
flutters on a linen page
as turquoise mist and viridian waves
curl beneath an emerald spool.

Hummingbird on a hawthorn branch
waiting for a brush of breeze
from limpid seas
across the stony shore.
Springtime serenades crest the summer door
as sunlight is cradled by sugar trees.

Hummingbird on a pale-white zephyr
gliding toward a wooded grove.
Our watercolor cove
brimming with blue
as dandelions rise from filmy dew.
Hummingbird, in the summer shade,
continues to rove.

Cedars on the ice-blue horizon,
lonely hills shrouded in hawthorne groves
curling over the mantle of snowy white.
Tones of a breeze brush through the trees,
like adagio for wintry symphonies.

Echoes of a river
sweep along the secluded forest of gray.
Scarlet clouds streak through the sky
in twilight’s dwindling gaze.
Stones of a glade near the solemn cascade,
entwined in a starlit sewn serenade.

Echoes of the water hymn
meander on empty boulevards -
I trod this sunken labyrinth on the sea.
I watch silk-clad cherubim
standing near the milky shards
as they join a haunted melody.

The girl sculpts lamenting statuettes
on the sunlit crown.
Countless hours within the tower
nesting angels in her lillywhite gown.

Ghosts of a shipwreck
pour into the starboard garden
and I paint their tears like pieces of an ocean.
They wander on the fore-deck
and sing as the eggshells harden.
I see to the dawn, filled with strange emotion.

She swims in the moonlight
as her body stills.
A winged flight in the fading night
while the chalice of golden wine overspills.

Her home is between
a dream and consciousness;
old specter of dark quartz.
Cradling her spells in skin-bound volumes,
old weaver of animosity,
the priestess of remorse.

In the amber fens, she's painting ripples
with turquoise glow.
Dancing with her puppets in a hellish glade
with skeletal hands
reaching from the mud and snow.

Sat beside the creaking wheel,
she draws phantoms on her loom.
Stirring murky potions
and studying the architects of doom.

Oft gazes her eyes of jeweled fire
upon the black smoke of a spectral pyre.
Watch her scribbling our forsaken fates.

Sunday's somewhere in the teal dawn
wandering on a lukewarm breeze.
Monday pens weary travelogues
with fugal prose of frozen seas.

Tuesday holds a gilded halo
of sunlit cirrus atop the knoll.
Wednesday gathers ornate words
and begets infinity upon a scroll.

Pale gleams flutter
upon a lap of willowing streams
and in a dream, the sun melts
as the moon sets at the end of my bed.

Island marooned, mana consumed,
and with ancient runes, a song is stitched
as love is woven in the white of wool threads.

Thursday hums a quiet tune
and lilts over the azure morn.
Friday trods the afternoon
through blossom and thorn.

Saturday nestles in cool dusk;
a shroud of purple-painted skies.
We'll blot a scarlet streak of stars
and crown the night with your hazel eyes.

Shades of saffron over the Black Hills,
droplets of evening blot the pines,
a whirring zephyr bathes the grassland
as horizon crawls from your eyes.

Pasque adorns the endless plateaux,
while sunset colors the sky.
Bison wander in scarlet twilight
through an ocean of durum and rye.