Whether in wax or wane, she is a constant, even when clouds hide her light.
Unbreakable bone china facade of delicacy, mischievous cheshire cat smile, depending on the day.
The poet in me demands I speak of cold tendrils of light finding their way into shadowy cracks, between slats of window blind, making new paths in darkened forests. Of a pale fingered enchantress who knows all the shortcuts through dream country. Of a barren landscape that is bright with promise. Of an intoxication that make drive a man mad when she beckons, for even the sea comes when she calls.