One drop, slithering down,
reflecting the illuminating orbs
of the heavens above,
revealing all mysteries hidden for eons
emblazoning the starkness of the veiled enigma.
She glistens like the naked morning
after the crude revival of the dark,
they leak upon porcelain and
coalesce the dust left from ages ago,
against a flaxen horizon, sunlit on a Thursday eve.
Like leftover films,
the tinkering of the yew,
she brushes against thee,
misting over with brine,
among the gale.
She is dark. She is light.
She is here. She is there.
She soothes. She wails.
She coruscates with the abyss of knowledge,