Between The Moment And The Light Fairy mists call out in kindred truism. They reap the littered bastion of the prey. The dancing, prancing, airy little winds Blow madly through the dark forboding sky. Chalice grasping tightly though their tiny fingers rend And spew the falling sand among corporeal breath or sigh. Return not nigh! Nor come between the moment and the light. Some pastel version of an angered violent Tempest reigns awry. |