Pearl Kite

My truthful name is Pearl Kite,
a quiet ovate qualm;
Flurry of meek clemency,
the hushed breeze of a psalm.
Tittup of faint cinnamon,
a hopeful thimble wish;
Song unheard among the rest,
I am a butterfish.

Floral lyric, garden witch,
a dusty lunar bloom;
I count the clicks of autumn,
still inching toward my doom.
Dwindling in midnight twill,
such emptiness opaque;
Delicate weekend disease,
crowning on fleshy lake.

A nihilistic eyebath,
as fragile as a fawn;
Dim cavity of rose cloud,
still sleeping on the lawn.
I am blushing apricot,
I am a pocket bird;
In puffs of pink ambrosia,
pastry of dainty word.

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