Magus Bride

The automatic tinge of orange and purple
In the sunrise is a renewal each day
There is an aching in the morning light
It is a painful resurgence, the morning
It is a high sign, a tip off when the flowers open
The sky is a gauze, so thin as to transmit light.
Cerulean, a clear October sky.
And oxblood, a moderate, reddish brown.
These colours are compounded,
beginning to anesthetize me.
Putting me well to sleep. 

A siren alerts the forest and the shadows.
The sky rattles and the mountains quietly stir
The world has an enthusiasm, the world
Is almost fairy. An ocean engulfs its dwellers
It is a sign that we should leave.
I imagine a scorpionfish when I look at you;
One with a mighty visage, a scowl
One found in the Atlantic Ocean by himself.
And I imagine myself, a great horned owl.
Two tufts on my head;
coming from the tundra edges.

The potent fog saturates everything it can touch,
Producing a lack of colour under the orangey-purple sky.
Fertilizing the earth, its axis on a tilt,
I would give it to you.
Magus,
may I be your bride?