Shuddering as a sanguine stem of perishing hesitance, a sliver of the eclipsed side of the moon, repressed, overlooked, yet when its sealed shells of dusty rainbow pearl meet the lighted night, leaving the attic of concealed, slipped away sadness, it manifests in platinum radiance a greater truth than that of the polished facade of the mirror so cherished through the ages, the side where one may glimpse oneself in a glitter of second-hand sun's superiority. This seductive filament of coiled black light, a quiet glow on my lashes, flickering against the weak flesh beneath the paling jewelry in my eyes, fondles my unworthy wrists of white roses, sprinkling upon them the soothingly lethal snowflakes of the Milky Way's winter star.

As the icicle petals wither and melt, scalded by the imitation conflagration, curled below the fractured chandelier's leaves of midday darkness, a gossamer desert of bitter bluish flame dangling above the sky, untouched by natural day, the reversely colored crystals of reawakening emerge, residue of a sunset long forgotten, meandering down from the frozen slopes in sweeps of impending reincarnation. The preliminary sparks of ominous ember blush leach from the horizon, erupting from the burning snow-flutes whose aureate, twinkling smiles drip away, their owners, blanketed statues, thawing into watery glass, vaporized blood underneath the fallen silk; its folds are now my own, razed by unforeseen fires of my forced dawn.