Open your heart paint your dream.
Do it in the broad daylight,
it’s your colour scheme.  
If the twilight falls on your colour plate
before you’re done painting the noon,
keep drawing down the moon!

Breakthrough at the first light.
No sunrise is any bird’s sleeping pillow.
They are on their wings, out and tweeting,
singing on the past night’s dreamscene.

Any of the fair duo, the Sun or the Moon,
sleek sunny golden or the silver line,
neither one of those can you catch.
They know their science  
like you count your time.

You can set your mind any time,
pick any number to count your time,
but you won’t have the last one.
There isn’t one, the mind is spotless fine.
But if the solar-lunar duo can count the last:
ask them to stop the time.  

Be truthful as you speak.
Open the heart into your eloquent word.
Never think you are alone, you are
complete with the complete world!

Perfect little golden fruit
As rare as the freedom you've brought upon
As rare as the fruit itself that brought upon
The soaring feeling of a falling fruit

Perfect golden fruit that was once a flower
A flower which for heaven's mercy bloomed
Dew drops on petals like a groom
It grooves along a rainy shower

Perfect, too perfect and flawless
An escape from this wonderful place
Of rotten carcasses beneath a smiley face
Perfect escapism nonetheless

Too perfect. Shining too perfectly
Even with eyes shut I see clearer
A fruit so **** sweet and sour
That shall it be gone I'll crave death badly

And should perfection leave existence
Darkness will breakout, so does my eyelid
Pure gold fruits are fairytales to begin with
In real typhoons no groom shall dance

This is where the ettin walks,
two-headed, three stories tall.
I’ve never heard the ettin talk,
save for his rancorous call.
Here, he lumbers, like an oaf,
towing up into the sky,
watching down upon the grove,
with his four golden eyes.
This giant is a savage beast
with a ram strapped to his back.
He is almost never at peace
except when he takes a nap.
The ettin lives up in the hills,
and walks between the trees,
guarding the grove from unwanted foes
and attacking those he sees.
The ettin carries an enormous club,
made from a withered old tree root.
He wears little ragged clothes
and stumbles around barefoot.

She danced with others,
with no shame, only laughter,
Elizabeth was her name,
and she had eyes of flame.

Her golden head was beyond the beauty of the Sun,
yet her skin was paler than the Moon,
and she signed the perfect tune.

She lived alone, deep amidst the trees,
her friends were the animals, especially the bees.

Nothing could compare her beauty because she wasn't a human,
yet an angel who fell from the sky,
a gift to all beings that walk the Earth and those who sing her lullaby.

Have enough respect for others to have patience with them,
Not always depending on them for anything and everything.
Have enough respect for yourself to
Go after what you want, not letting it slip out of your grasp.
Find the b   l    n   e  and you will be golden.
                   a   a   c

Golden hues light up the day
Violet tones at night
Roses scent fills up the air
You can find them without sight

Blue for bells not ringing
Yellow signs of spring
But still the air is scented
By the Rose, the floral King.

golden threads of sun,
weave a flashy evening dress;
nature wears it pleased!

I love the arch of your back
It is a golden archway of light
The bridgeway to Heaven,
If Heaven could even compare

On the lookout for a leeway
I'd cross that bridge in a blink
As love surpasses blasphemy
And my feelings for you surpass love

From the eternal reach of sky flung stars eclipsing
The multiverse afar,
To the deepest depths of oceans unseen sights
No man may venture to seek a beauty
Like that of a women so divine.
Defined by the product of genetic perfection,
The picturesque quality of evolutionary design:
Of the moons gibbous glow,
The inner aura of your fluttering eyes
Bring me comfort on a cold winters night.
With skin, soft as silk
Tanned by the suns golden light,
Your flesh melts me back to life.
Like the lapping waves and wisping winds
Along the sands of an islands ocean shore
Your soothing tone of foreign tongue
Caresses my aching skull.

Beyond the chisel of mans mortal hands,
No surgeon may sculpt the flesh with so tedious a design:
An anatomical hourglass
Of Immaculate form,
Unseen among the flaws of humanities mistaken design.