You tread so, unfondly and almost—
too carefully after the echoes
of wintry whisperings, yet swerve—
and twirl in a grand vesture

of fireflies, of distant worries;
dream like a glowing summer
amongst dwindling youths
and enraptured stardust:

solemnly, and dearly too.

"I will be happy, if you were..."
insistent, you professed; yet deny me—

your caged heart.

Your silhouette casts over
the fiery meadow, over—
the vibrant ruins; finds harbour
only, in the eyes of the serpent

and prance wreathed in light.

Caress your clipped wings; embrace—
yourself and bear in mind, always:

I will sit with you in the dark.

When certain thoughts gather in a cyclic recession, and the measure of moments decline; however dearly:

various arrays of colours and motives tend to converge into a common, single voice:

"I wanted to be better."

I.
I once asked about halations, and wondered what they were;

If they did at all exist, for once.

How they'd appear only in blurry and unfocused pictures;
Or perhaps at times, still and expectant on the verge of our tears?

Now the question:
"What makes a halation?" And if we're thinking of the same thing.


II.
So I then wrote about halations, and tried to make (believe) sense—  
of what they were (not) portraying.

I spoke of their lucidity amongst all others;
of their ever-curious charm,
and of their picturesque whims—

yet denied them a photograph; and opt for another.

Hence was said:
"More than a picture; a metaphor."

In other words: are we thinking of the same thing?


III.
With it, I'll once again talk about halations, and wonder where they are;

Wonder when they might appear.

If the lights still scatter after—
and on the far side: if they would cast the same fair shades then.

Here I quote:
"For every shot taken is merely a remnant of the most beautiful."

I will speak of the light; and without doubt—
be thinking of a different someone.

You'd ask me over again,
If it's okay to not want;
to not ask for more.

I would in turn answer again—
and over again:

"Despite the distances walked,
and sparing moments borrowed,

I don't—
I wouldn't mind,"

because to love is to give,
and that is all I know.