Days. The pallid days that seem to come motionless.
Mantels now devoid of color, their blankness complete.
The skydomes swirling in amethyst are lost,
not in the night, but in the distance.
Gone is the unifying stillness of the moment,
days, the pallid days that seem to come motionless.
Endure this time,
patience, our most distinguished friend.
This pallor is nothing but a prelude,
and the silence before the psalm.
It will come, loud and smitten with attraction,
as a single instrument breaking the silence in echoes.
A foolish reminder.
Melodic and intimate in its caress.
Its power growing tender with each passing tide,
returning devotion to those seeking eyes...
Patience, for this pallor is nothing but a prelude.