The full moon in withered beauty,
Upon the evening pales,
Becomes the sweetest anemone,
Drawn weakly from its flight,
The day remains in blue.

Cobbled walls made much in time,
A violet ring inscribes,
Laid still beside the grazing harts,
Which drift to long shadows,
The counterpoint to her white radiance.

The eager pictures fall behind,
They took a lightness on my eyes,
Now heavy lids make days draw quick,
Walk heedless weary 'neath the sun,

Beside the swollen grass and waning stalks,
Beat on in pulses as the vigor of my heart,
Rescind the rain to call the summer glaze,

A squabbled scene of green to find,
Which lasts beyond all strength of spring,
Alas the eager pictures will return at dawn,
To test I last beyond all strength of spring.

Ascending on my arms,
Travelling from the dust to padded metal up on high,
My knuckles white on palest bars,
And I pull with heated breath,
Fire from my arms you see,
Molten magma glowing down,
Flowing through my shoulders stiff,
Pooling in my lungs to seethe,
Before it bubbles out in rage,
Out in heated breath forgotten,
And I shall ascend on steam punk arms,
That grow less weary by the day,
As they pull me up again.