Past the windowframe.

As the spider casts it's charm
across the window
of streams, adorned with dew drops
delicately, deliciously positioned
across a sheet of crystalline glass
transforming into that of iced clouds
that snap. Bitter,
in all four corners.

She looks on.

The next, folded, fading faces.
An army of painted curves
tip, unbalanced and fall.
Their cries echo in the colour
of terror,
muds of autumn traced the ground.
But they cling on.

And she looks on.

A solitary stand.
Mirror of me, it reaches
in all direction, yet
the same direction.
I know,
christened with the fairy's dust
a few hopeful thoughts
and I will fly.
Fly on.

She looks on.

xx