A crimson gleam of a slightly silent cry,
With nails of thorns ready to burst the skin.
Off longing eyes on dewdrops dimming days,
And the sweet rush of blissful slumber.
Dimming silver of misty chill,
On summer ember; thin and fragile.
With cooling breaths off deadly nights,
And the gleaming gold off the thin line of earths crust.
Irregular figures of wonderland white,
Falling from feathers to forest below.
Of gentle winds picked up to speed,
Falling back and rest on a blanket of purity.