The field is white and grey and rarely does the hickory play. Nor flute nor magic annihilation come out to desecrate the snow. Or whimsical or mythical does mouse the meeker rise and catch the dreaming half-still thoughts from out of the leering eyes. Oh Vokuro do you stare at dawn, as if the mirror rising could ever be a fawn.

“If I could have just one wish for for this christmas year. As I never haved received many things I fear, and nothing received ever lasts or is held quite dear.” The clock-work boy say to the lady in the orange dress, who’s hair was darkly curled and always in a mess. She had eyes like untold secrets and close he had never seen them, for they lay always out of range. “Photographs to capture a soul.” That was his wish, to capture deviance, to capture claim over fabled skin so white that had naught to be seen. Narcissistic “pride”, over moral aptitude waged it’s covert cat-like warfare desperately, on the “side”.

It cavorted and measured, careful to make it’s sway. And patiently allured kept all else at bay. Dolling out the vibes uneasingly in cure, and simply unefficient in the face of pure. For it was master craftsman, no! For it was tiger uneervingly assured, no! Painter quietly carousing the depths of the meandering miring hell of mortal filth, yes. And it was not to be trifiled with. It’s mask was blackest black and filled with lemon lines, and flowers grew along the edges of it’s eyes. There were no teeth along the mask, but crosses made their stay. On edged like corners sifting through the frey.

Fingers were nary here nor there and rose like feathers to the sky. Like if one could dream about it one could surely fly. It wanted darkness and photos to capture the deviance. And every unthoughtful forsakening to cross the path of the mazier who captured the scaleness skins. As if no one at all mattered but the perilous flight. Like fingers strode to the corners of pleasure and revealing verily the pearl. Or the bust exposed to the field of eyes marking the line of death, where unjust the justice scales could weigh them in ethereal the mind, far away.

Not proposturous was the requested dream like wish. Or unreknowned or penitently exhaulted could ever be a kiss. Left liqoured or laquered inside out, in acts unresonably reclined. Brought to view and vase along walls where the meadow lined. And the sun engulfed the views. A hundred thousand regaled lights inside the morning dews.

But would the wish be received, at the click-clack of dawn, packaged up and guarded. To be caught from the sky and pulled down with strings, to be whispered patiently a password into it’s lock and key door. And opened to the suprise of only but one and cherished like winter-cream skin freshly seen to the eyes. The bust of a mighty statue caught within them and the pearl of an ocean clam sacrosanctly in view. A face of a goddess and her unburdened unhidden frame. Left under the luster of curled vines the darker shade and blessed with eyes of color given to the waves.

The favourite of things aroused and eerily liqoured in love. Spooned over with a ladel thick of amourous intentions crashed with break-fast tides and nicking infractions.

Oh the snow is white and the patchwork, clock-work boy says to the lady in the orange dress, who’s hair was darkly curled and always in a mess. That shadows are the things of old, and cold and wearily do they rest.