A Quin by any other jingle would sound as merry.
Would that my utterings matched the tinkling
shatter of my solitude.

Lips shaped around a name, tasting the tone.
A brief meeting in a cold cavern of art and yet
I feel your words.

Is this love, sharp, twisted and devoid of forthought?
Or have I found only another mirage, spinning in
brightly ornamented baubles?

Viridian, I stand, thorned and protected.
A breath from you and they would unwind,
revealing a bud.

Waiting. The game I play is dedicated to you.
For a span of time, the stillness I embody
will be yours.


Penned by my hand on the 24th of Miraman, in the year 640 AF.