Beneath the moon a garden fair,
There blooms a rose of darkened hair.
She dances slow and through the gates.
A ghost of mist, of lace and air.
A feral red unchains her curves,
Below those eyes of blessed verve.
A song emits of silent wish.
The night retains all notes deserved.
A wolfen cry presents the time,
The damsel yields her potetent mime.
A stillness bathes the morning air.
Naught else remains but fragrant Thyme.