her words give birth
to songbirds
arranged in strange striations
and when they call
all the heavens
start to fall as wintry feathers
into the mercy
of an erstwhile whisper
from pursed lips
pricked with petaline pigments
immersed
in otherworldly waves
she bathes the light
triumphant
without her semblance
all is but for naught
to doubt her tenor
fate should heed to falter not
for it is she alone
who shall usher in the dawn
auspicious
Max, or Not 