I behold what I have created,
immaculate but yet not true,
like a celestial conceptualization created by the chiseling edges of my fended anima.
Your image does not belong to you, but is simply carried by the many. As a shadow among the faded, I seize what you bestow so easily and wide-eyed. While my spirit paints and composes, the defenses that once fended the atelier become dismantled. My creation is no longer of nature, and so the spectral replica consumes my pertinent, frail obscurity, turning it as dim as the ghost enclosing the uncharted space.