Residing in the darkest night,
'Bove mountain peaks that cluelessly excite,
Behind grey clouds like withered lead,
Heavier than the thoughts spinning inside my head,
Like the winds fueling a hungry deluge,
That swallows me whole.
Its round, white shape like a freshly cleaned plate,
Chipped and nicked with stains of faded grey,
It seems to move but somehow stays at bay
Changing its appearance, like flowers bloom in may.
It entices me.
It emanates a fog so milky and ethereal,
That moves fluidly, a movement so imperial
And gentle, yet frightening,
Always brightening,
It blinds me.
