Tatyana's Ink
Sipping time upon a sundial, awaiting her haloed quill.
Days cascading to a decade to the reaper's willing krill.
Supreme word weaver, stroking looms of endless dream.
White satin muse seducing all with sprays of raven's ink.
Was your vanishing simply a crowning of a masterpiece?
I pray to embrace the blaze of a soul I'll never reach.
I admire that golden weave from light-years afar.
The gilded mist of your muse, I've placed in mason jars.
I, glass gardener, tend your blooms of verse and prose.
Whirlwinds of enchanted petals that never crinkle old.
Winged spirit, brushing clouds of my three-leafed dream.
Has your muse scribbled over cliffs onto life's ragged reef?
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