Gothica
under the dock leaves
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You slide across the branches,
Your glitter is fertile pollen,
You're shadows in the shape of leaves.
A wind that ripples the crest of waves against the current,
You caress the rivers but you are the springs.
Your eyes: buds which are moistened by the dew,
Beyond webs of obscurity.
The branches swing you
Then you glide on your transparent wings.