Salvaged streams, sensory displays
not yet coalesced as moments taught.
Still in thrall to wide fallacies of thought,
sainted lies, fascinations dearly bought.
Distant siren call wails of betrayals,
wasted travails, cheerless devastation.
The magick of night.
The clearness of cold.
Stars glittering tales so old.
Cradle, caress, with blessing.
Saints, sages, wizards, mages.
Message writ on high, when
we stop to see, to read.
Cold is a slowness, a force
of inertia, a space,
a pause in time.
Dark carries reflection — any
fancied face or fortune
could be in reach.
Seasons speak
tones of mystique, murmured
We map passages, echo rites.
Children chasing Moonbeams
to believe in hope, joy, love,
because we need the light,
the warmth, the colors.

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