She begins!

Her dance the birth of a thousand stars
Living and dying
Before her first breath!

The sun carries her,
The sublime arc of form:
The vagrant curves of her wrists,
Her smile, wrapped in razor-wire anarchic,
Golden thighs,
Perfection
Burning memory from my head.

She is laughing now
The blood on her teeth both disregarded
And remembered

Now she is asleep,
Curled and safe,
Wrapped in sheets her mother has sewn.

Now she is everything,
Spun from nothing at all.

She turns,
God-like nonchalance in eyes
That bleed both understanding and pity,
And moves away,
Her dance taking her far away from here,
From my hands and my lips
And my fingers fumbling love poetry in the dark.

And so come the sunspots
Blackening,
Peeling back some indefinable need within,
And through their exposure, I now know:
She is a herald,
And these are signs of her final days,
Or of the beginning of her reign.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Midsummer, in the year 189 MA.