My Cold-Silver Princess

This question-prompt night, I feel the

Travel-far wind of her passing –

My cold-silver princess moon –

As it gently settles its precious

White-ice powder

On my aching soul and

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No Tomorrow-Chains.

So much sun-on-butterfly-wing colour here;

Princess on the table.

“No strings,” she begs, “let there be

No tomorrow-chains.

I’m asking for nothing more

Than one night’s freedom skies;

Perhaps a whole lot more

Than you dare promise …

But, before you shake your head,

Hear this: I am willing

To accept your lies

But you have to be convincing.”