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Description
Cesca

The baby was mine,
Though I knew that she wasn't.
Reaching down to lift her,
I lift something within me;
I lift the veil and raiment of four-in-the-morning dewdrops,
And cast away their stifling truth.
They are far sweeter than drops of orange sunlight,
So artificial in their falling;
They are far more precious in their ever ephemeral nature,
As entities such as sunlight stifle spirits until they succumb
To the very darkness the sun dispels.
Yet despite the truth these gentle mists bear,
They are naught but truth's remnants
When then glisten in the sunlight
Upon my baby sister's skin.

... I was bored, So I decided to draw this little portrait of my youngest sister... I started to feel strangely reminiscent, so I wrote that poem to go with it. Hmm...

Description
Cesca

The baby was mine,
Though I knew that she wasn't.
Reaching down to lift her,
I lift something within me;
I lift the veil and raiment of four-in-the-morning dewdrops,
And cast away their stifling truth.
They are far sweeter than drops of orange sunlight,
So artificial in their falling;
They are far more precious in their ever ephemeral nature,
As entities such as sunlight stifle spirits until they succumb
To the very darkness the sun dispels.
Yet despite the truth these gentle mists bear,
They are naught but truth's remnants
When then glisten in the sunlight
Upon my baby sister's skin.

... I was bored, So I decided to draw this little portrait of my youngest sister... I started to feel strangely reminiscent, so I wrote that poem to go with it. Hmm...