Lady of the Dawn

Rousing sweetly as the morning mist,
forming ephemeral fairies with each breath
Darkness receding with every step;
a chill emanates through dew kissed lips

Hallowed thine vessel,
touched by ghostly saint
Lips tremble, speak thy praise
yet I speak not of my own accord

A whiff inundates whole of man
of old parchment, jasmine perfume,
coffee scented kisses,
and of terrible regret

For a mere mortal to gawk upon
the goddess of the morning star
Luck, but a wandering illusion,
to him, a part of the divine design

Brushing his, against her butterscotch lips
The air caroling wildly
with the smell of buttered toast
and a freshly baked muffin

Khayyam dancing to primordial beat,
a rhythm of reveling,
of love and of merriment
As if, her, a verse out of the Rubiyat

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