You are my platonic goddess,
and I, your wayward mystery
Yet I am astronomical,
and though space is cold and empty,
it holds inexplicable warmth;
its fires rage incarnadine,
and with no suffocating atmosphere,
they smelt as they coagulate
You are my Yggdrasil,
and I, your cosmic soil.
Irony begets your growth,
limbs so far from my earth.
Impress upon me latent wisdoms,
unbecoming of your ilk.
Show me naught,
and extancy shall wax
unto my perception.
Brilliance can only hold such luminosity
in boundless darkness,
or we are accursed and blind.