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Felicity balms in a vapor of gold, 
where the dawn silverly unfolds,
as flagged standard- bearer showing, 
pregnancy of colors bold, of heavenly hue.

Like dew on petals of
hope- return to sender, it's glisten held 
to show 
the back of the mind, as sunlight due 
to gently mold it's tender, 
a mine a dope could surely know, 
and bloom a seed, 
render golden moment to listen, 
an ode, to it's cheerleadering, 
dopamine, algorithmic code.

Where in the heart of wayward shadows-does contemplation exact it's purple plea,
to be reconciled, a directory of spectrred directors 
in a dance of the Valkyrie; 
from the gloom, from a tomb turned to 
sanctuary, bequeethed 
where a garden grows 
vineyard fruit of the loom, 
benefactor of the weave.

In tuned ephemeral archery, 
a lilting sigh, a temple assumed, 
to glow, apart from sardonic reach,
in each breath of euphoric beach- 
in the rains and raging blow, quickened fleet. 
Reining in to searchlight, to find 
the moments that beseech, 
in gallop by, bating you to ride, again, 
in the grace shining forces 
beneath zealot eyes.

With peace of mind in deed,
a signet waxing, fae ring , 
golden fleece tapestry woven, reads  
with threads of en'light-ning resonance 
signature intercede, calling the fabric of integrity, 
dances from strings pulled amidst colors bleed, 
bled from overcomers trials marionette, 
netted from strife to seed.

Stitching the seams of a restless soul, 
a clearing house, a cowl, a cull of fears chains  
tares of the decayed 
remains and spoils of mortal coil.

Each stitch a cleaving to grace-anew, 
every connection an embalming of fates residue.
A magic carpet tide, 
gliding on dreams that make 
us whole, to ride, a-gain to gather the vapor aside, 
the reign, let it embrace, 
and lather beads of pearly sheen.
A kismet kiss to match your stride, 
and shine 
on your face, "alive and kicking!"

O the tender pulse of your beating path- in the field of dreams, the staunch alchemy in the balm, 
in this sacred space, not appointed to wrath or harm, 
but chosen are we.

These, winds in your sails of fires flying banner, 
smoke entrails of propulsion's fare, 
what manner of tale?

Lung of manna, set apart, from despair, 
in the eye of the beholder, stares,
surveying traces, like a hound in the park or dell.
Where we dare to loose our chains and manacles, 
and play a part in the miracle, of the healing arts.

God's gifts, they never disappointment or consume 
or lie, 
but point with Eros trigger and sparks, 
a shot in the dark, 
an appointment to abide 
one step closer to the heart.
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