Soft on the neck of either dove’s love, beyond such a beauty, there hides a haze. A hazy patch of blacks and blues, where ashes lay, woke. The nightlight from an open candle sits in silence, trapped in lifeless motion, as it awaits the sun beyond its metal feet. A frozen door handle, covered with moldy moss, acts as the dawning memory of a lock intended to close, but always remains open, as a child’s laughter re-paints flowers along a bedroom barrier. A gold treasury of memories can not always sparkle, so rescue the strong, for the platinum treasure is not so easily manipulated by frost.