You are a stolen peacock and I have webbed feet We stumble together and I fall in your feathers They're not as soft as they look Display to me, your mystery, oh pretty peacock. I stole you for a reason Waddle with me?
Resting in that prism; a population of magnificent reflections. Revealed in the diamond edges, ideas bounce from light. Contours are made home to ideas of crystal clarity when you hold your prism in the fullness of your hands.