She comes to me where it is always night—
A black form, flowing black cape;
And like the moon, her face is white,
A deadly blossom from the black scape.
Her whisper I hear, soft but austere.

Her lips blow boreal breaths of dreams,
Dark torrents, cataclysmic illusions,
A web of inky, sugary themes
Building an empire, forcing extrusions
That harden like ice behind my eyes.

She tips the hourglass to begin
(With glassy ice knives and mirrors as weapons)
The descent of fallacy from within
And as each silver sliver cut deepens,
I begin to see the masterpiece.

Then, with a smile, she fades away,
Her work done, leaving me solitary;
Her zephyr falls, bearing an array
Of starlight elucidating the airy
Frost that crept into my mind and slept.