If my breath could ruffle the
downy underlayer of yoursoul,
life would spread through your
quiescentwings.

Your hooves would no longer
collide with theground and
the impact-bruises would disappear.

Thecrimson nourishment offered to
you by my enchantmentwould
ensure your flourishing prophecy,
and then thesoftness would return
to your velvet eyes,
(which I hateto see swaying and
moist in a sea of pain's harshswells).

     But in thoseeyes,
     an unsound entityenraptures my mind.
     The darkghost evades my gripsconsistently
     and leavestraces of its appeal in
     youririses.
     A gift from theonce-flaxen terror
     thathaunts me like itsprogenitor.
     Within a secondit's gone,
     confusing mefurther.

My effort is futile, but I'll neverconcur.
No matter how hard or how long I try,
your heartwill run from me in fear
of being burned again.
Aresidue of death stays around
you in the pores of yourbones.
Pegasus arises, but I am dust.