In a shop there were two angels crafted from ivory shells. Sitting in the palm of my hand while flying on journeys distant and far. Horns held high in brilliant glory, they play songs soprano and alto drawing me closer like white stars burning far away yet close. Fairies gold and silver sing my precious memories. Tabernacle Dim light gradually forms.
Dew drops drip continuously like purine tears of lakes or diamonds against coal.
A doleful yet beautiful melody sings, its music omnipresent and abstract. Yonder an ethereal cygnet mature while young at heart, Her living spirit articulate as the low flute's keynote speaks to my soul omniscient of my arduous path. Life and Death breach upon their births as Her pathos and mine illuminate the cavern of dew and stalagmites, my tabernacle. Weaponlike Sharp and deadly, it gleams. Metallic and cruel, it is mercurial, beclouding, and life-ending.