As an autumnal breeze, breaches the horizon.
Like placid gems, only without the rising,
Hue of catatrosphe, lain to spur contempt.
The malady their beauty remains,
in golden glistened mint.
For the zealotry in sin, a soul's resent,
to the stars hath strewn upon hands distant,
only to the heart, his craft listens.
How hath thee to discern, credulous thought to vie,
to disdain the sky's celestial,
iridescent awe! Refute one,
turns thine eyes from the sky.