Upon the bruised canvas of twilight, navigator of dreams, behold how stars tear the shrouds of heavens, longing to touch by ocean's curl as sweetly mourning the untouched night blooms in rapture beyond clouded.
Etched in fluid echoes, a map blooms peculiar, charted not by sight but by whispered kiss and sea's echoes—where love's palm caresses the mystery of polestar rhythms floating upon teardrops of tidal unfurls.
When breath of moonlight lacquer spill embraces the profound ether, wee boats robbed of names trace heartbeats in such unfathomable largesse. What ships sailed bewitched by longing skies to taste such reiterated vast?
To the Undersea Pommes of Glass Find the Ripple's Song