He, in the darkness, wields stars from the night.
Paints pictures of auras, of beauty, and light.
On the whitest of canvases bleeds words wrought of gold,
And reaches to mend the darkest of souls.
He is a mystery, a riddle, a song,
A strange sort of rhythm that’s right when all’s wrong.
He is a boy, a student, a man,
He’s learning to fall and rise when he can.
He is a gift, a treasure, a prize,
He’s who she’ll wait for, until the time’s right.