i am
racing to catch a falling star
ablaze in golden splendor
entangled in glorious shimmers
caressed in her luminous waves
a glimmering gleam of suggestion
aglow in the glint of a ray
embracing her glittering virtue
in the light of a failing day



pic poem
https://imgur.com/a/xQw8mE1

Imprison the blaze
for unlearning
the ghost of our light
to bow down before
an interim simulacrum
of the sham.

You said,
that the colours are so hurting;
that this soundless shapelessness
comforts you.

I cannot extricate you.
Cannot unleash
from the unbreachable
for I learned that
this stasis is your only home.

Our lips are matches
that, struck against each other,
blaze up
brighter than the lights of your city;
brighter than the desert sun, and
I don't want the fire to go out.
So press your lips against mine again.
Strike the match
Let's see how brightly we burn.

"The Queen, the Queen,
The Queen does come forth," yells a girl from St. Anne's to the patrons in court.
The Queen's procession wraps around the lake right over the bridges and up to main gate.
The criers are ringing their bells.
"Make way, make way," yells Saint Blaise.
The next to come forth is the Kriegshunde of old yelling knockviter to those who would be bold.
Steel Bonnet came next, clinking and clanking like a rusty steel mess.
Then the footmen came forth with pikes so high that they slice through the trees with a fright.
The Mariners came shambling past, those sea-loving folk, you know the ones without anything that floats.
Then the flags of all companies converge in front of the nobles we so deserve.
As you see the drummers called Rolling Thunder precede the Queen's chair,
  and a patron yells, "Is that the Queen of the faire?"