Wrap You Up, Beautiful, Wondrous Child

Though it is dark and though a bit ominous, how it catches firelight with shadows black and obscene.

It swallows the light, perhaps as it so despises it's glare. Or is it jealous, silently rotting green and putrid beneath such rich, drowning beauty.

Wrap yourself, for it is often in fine material.

Silk and thick downs, smooth and fluid as the water, thick and lined soft as a sheep's tangles of fur.

Lock and Hem, aconite and all a witch's berry shaded brews. Dyed in such mysterious, alluring, so fatal shades.

Almost black some could say it is charred.

Worn to war and worn in the throne rooms.

Forgive then, if it has some patches, if perhaps the hems of this color are a bit burned.

Through it's wear, through long years exposed and bullied by the winds and scorching sun.

It's color remains-- as if by magic-- unknowable and regal.

Look, how in a long cloth it buries you up. Gently holds you, protects you.

How the people stare on but don't dare speak.

Stay silent, stay abound in their stupor when you walk.

Clothed in such fine things.

Hooded your face, look how the color makes your skin all the more spectacular. Or how the tufts of hair that peak out, their own lustrous flower.

Keep it child.

Such a rare color.

Worth the cottage, worth thy whole forest, and worth only the prettiest words and highest airiest compliments.

Worth the most unique, the most beloved treasure.

A child.

So unique and wondrous as you.

Will you do magic? Will you smell of the dust on books and have nails painted by quill ink?

Tell the seamstress for this fine, royal dye.

Stars to the sky?

Or simple silver to leap across fluttering waves?