Refraction.

Avisha.

I call for her;
My familiar.
She may take one of a thousand forms -
Perhaps a most enchanting woman
With copper skin,
The gold adorning her body
Only coming second to the depths
Of her eyes; those golden eyes.
One could compare them to honey,
For they are just as sweet,
But to do so
Would be a heresy, a bilk of my duty
To honour her splendour.
It is of both her body and mind,
Elegant irrespective of which form she takes.
She may appear as that divine woman,
An elegant serpent,
Or anything that pleases her - those molten
Eyes, however, do not change.
I savour their depths when she speaks,
And it is the sort of voice that one cannot grow
Tired of; the kind that you miss
When she becomes silent.
She speaks with calmness, yet also
With great passion,
And will let out a delightful laugh
Should one inquire as to her accent -
The kingdom it came from has long since been lost,
Although she loves to tell stories
Of how things were, how they are,
How she'd hoped they would be,
And she speaks so well that you cannot help
But become intrigued, enraptured -
Her voice may well be a metaphor
For the entirety of her:
The passion, the beauty, the wisdom...
She is a whirlwind of life, seeking pleasure,
But not recklessly.
She is the woman, the serpent, with the golden eyes;
A tease, an advisor, a dear friend.
She is Avisha, with the golden eyes,
And I am beyond fortunate to have her.