Spun words softly strung,
into purple night, the violin song.
Where wax has molded serene beauty,
for all of the worlds eye to see.
When tomorrow comes and the sun may melt the mold,
an image capture today will be the essence foretold.
Ever gentle to float upon a delicate rapture,
when it is these words she may capture.
Into the age of a new day,
the song a ballad, a ruse to say.
The muse might be Terpsichore reborn,
ever after in loss to the Crimson lore.
As the eve breaks and a new day is on the dawn,
forever but for one moment, to you, these words belong.