only the sets and services are pure,
and all still linger over-lost
then
is the husk of the shadow-ways breached, then patterns patch over as hours crawl over
then
all is painted, only to fade in a vaguery, transparent for the dinner-tolling
Each moment ought to hold
a silvering under this fickle starlight, a shivering of light from some dread dimmering,
a spell standing over a fathomless step, a crown over dead princes, and
something not trifled with, or not requisite, though for itself, for it alone stands as a purity while gutless, all other things defer for eachother, leaving nothing but a web, nothing but a husk, for the conscience to waver over.
Advent: Twilight Poem Advent VI: The Mist