Ashen twilight illuminates the portrait.
A warm, tepid glow heats the face turned to the wind.
The time between nocturnal and radiance.
The earth, caressed by the slowly sinking orb,
A hand on a cheek.

Eyes dart to the scene before them,
Contemplating if draperies are drawn,
If they are being shown false images.
A myriad of iridescence, crawls out of emeralds,
Slightly shadowed, barely burning,
Changing the pigments.

Flowers are streaming from a verdant vein
Like colours changing in a rainbow.
A dark violet wine grows, changing shades in its long neck,
Orchid to amethyst.
These iris? bothered only by the disappointment
Of the moon they must cower from.
Sleeping beneath her and basking in a different brilliance.

Pondering, the mind questions what the flowers dream of.
Already sleeping under the stars,
Do they dream of a soft rain storm,
To have the stars fall from the sky and kiss their cheeks?
Or wish only for the sun to return
And bring them back to life?
Do they dream of dancing with the wind,
As the faeries do?
Or do they dream of the fearies,
With their wings as glorious as their own petals,
Napping, wing on wing?

Now their star winks at them in second twilight,
Gently waking them from their dreams.
Movement is orderly,
Ears can almost hear the cymbals shiver,
Waking them as they each stretch and yawn.
The nose realizes the sweet aroma of the flower morning breath,
Aromatic, calming... sleepy.

Wing on wing,
Colours melding together in a lustrous icon.
The melody of mortality echoing distantly,
Eyes close and dream of flowers.

09/03/2005