Glass rose, not an enchantment for noses;
your a guilded tome for the woe-filled tale,
open only with a converse tickle.
Be worthy of my siren song to sing.
I knew a Gnome, entangled in your folds,
one who scurried with each new birth of day
away from the hurries of the light, but soft
what distant beastly noises did she flee?
No creatures, trolls, or others that make sound.
No. It was the subtleties that dawn brings:
Dry glow, diamond dew; the halo mounting
'round the Son I pray to with each passing.
She was beautiful, no less than darkness
falling fast, ensnaring toes first, then heart
held to the last. Playful rouse then to rest.
I know her only by your hanging, rose.
Lost her no less where the trail-head foundered.
Yet every eve to take the silent gaurd,
strike out amoungst the briar patch that grows;
follow that sing song drifting through the boughs.
Search wearily till the daybreak blossoms,
again somewhere beyond the twilight fauns.
Tome, hold me close with lips that press to sip;
take this breath, let each petal drift & flow,
released upon a pinna found most worthy.
Grow upon that breast, where my longing ends.
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