You want to be a diamond, a glossy you, a merely endless sight, an awe-shimmering smile night-sweeping sideways into idle stars. But you’re a perpetual presence, penetrating civil paintings. You’re an inauspicious frail oozing something. You’re a sort of material befitting iron, and quietly and frequently you’re wrung down down down ten tons down. You manifest politely, a blacksmith-y external polish. You’re an educated bear, baring flowers near my window-pane. Black or silver ashes, never gold. But you, you want to be exquisite. You can be exquisitely wrought in a summer-morning costume. Not a well-ordered, wooden head any longer. You’ve become sparkling black, not quite a white gloss. You’re a sharply over-exulting silvery sheen beneath my feet. You’re the drowsy pleasure one diligent, blazing morning. You dwell near smoke-blackened walls, and illuminate the gloom.
I readily, quite free-heartedly make your acquaintance, you with the perceptible intermixture nature.
