I trickle thus forth, a gem from heavens' cascade,
Weaving my tender embrace around unfamiliar spires.
Whence came the design of silver’s embrace,
I glide through electric dance of a future's serenade.
Upon polished mirrors, I glance the waltz
Of lights in their myriad courting blaze.
Ah, tender loops and spirals, infinite and brief!
A raindrop poet am I, in a world that dreams while awash.
Embarked upon this journey, I am the silent muse, carved from sylvan nectar, yet bathing the lands unforeseen, where glass towers pierce imagined skies and translucent shadows beckon the souls to awaken their dormant ingenuity. In these vistas, unknown forces scribble constellations of crystalline thoughts and send them twirling down the incline of consciousness. Beyond mere whimsy, for I, a raindrop, am the progenitor of epochs yet to bask in the golden sunset's glow.
As I am drawn between the sinews of ancient lines and lines unfounded, I yearn yet pause upon the brink—a momentary lapse before being destined to morph into mist, stitched, as I trip on filament so unseen. Here, in soliloquy anointed by aspirations infinite, reflections grow: what artistry shall the dawn unfold in the prime-eye of us droplets, seeking bounty amidst the grand tapestries of celestial embraces?