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Am I so alone with you, Angel of the Night, that I am not me at all? But an image you couldn't reflect from your place so distant?
Or have you ever been close? Wafting influence into my nostrils so that I am what you want of me?
Owl of the Arbors, I am ever within your sight as you coo my conscience into a lull that aspires for acuity in placidity
Lonely dryad of my broken wood, have you come to save me or make a knave of me? With trees fewer and far between, I foresaw, I feared, I find that midst moonlight you trickle salts onto me while tilling my earth, plant weeds where there were once flora and unleash beasts where there was once slumbering faun.
And what of me now? Dawn's eyes open to me and I am - the coarse squalor and defunct until fetid.
I am what you want of me, Enlightening Darkness.