Warning: ridiculous periodical fancy flowery old-fashioned language ahead. Proceed with caution.
~
The sun sets under the horizon,
Darkness stalks with heavy tread
The ones who linger in the star shine,
Dreaming, wishing for their beds.
But lo, a figure encroaches on these -
Nay, not a figure, but a shade!
Death himself would fain to shrink
From the wielder of this blade;
She rustles through the rippling grass
And o'er the desert stone,
Profoundly present in her absence,
Her features hewn from bone.
Behold, the foot of her rigid dais
Is strewn with crystal craters,
Her gown, woven of gossamer threads
From the talented hands of our makers;
And while, to us, she seems so far -
So elegant, so refined,
Still she chases the only one for whom
She has always pined.
~