A dark breeze carries a brief message from winter. The smoke from my pipe drifts and ascends into the stillness, curling up around faint moonbeams Wrought with conflicting passions of want, in darkness are children begetting children. The alien light shines, and we are reluctant. The naked soul is not perceived. Death is a soft thing, like moonshade, cast from something new made.
Death is a subtle thing, as common as a new experience.
The result of an experiment, the occult of enlightenment. Tender sleep cradled, I am listening, waiting for heaven to speak. So tender are the moods, consuming smile, breaking cry. So delicately constrained are they, that beside them, I lay restrained and motionless. How readily do we sense sweet nectars adrift upon aestival spirits, or the earthy fragrance of autumn air.