Like the voice of a silver star,

  Heard now from afar,

  soft and quiet, beauty calls

  Out of the dreaming rain;

  Upon the neon-tinted horizon

  Murmuring music falls,

  Never to rise again.

  Voice of the flames that die,

  in fallen whispers

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  On ruinous gardens waning

  by ungathered bouquets

  Voices of hope

  and the midnight sun

  In my heart, these two are one,

  Fair the petals falling

  drifting on golden winds,

  fire-flecked hope residing

  in sunset-haunted

  hollow skies.