Words can best become hymns.
But every so often they resist.
Instead they fall into self glorification.
Like a siren and its distance, as morning in a song serenading the dusk.
The dawning of the sun rendering all travails and tempests of the moon rested.
The tides of time encapsulated in a smile, yet and musingly curving in wrinkles abiding the eyes to shine.
What glory hath the gods to beget, that in this moment they find peace and fill in our hearts unencumbered.
And to joyous seconds,
beckon a light.