The Doom Weaver
You cannot accept the tender of my love. Your grief waters my garden. When sun blesses your hair, I collect strands lost to your brush, spin gold so fine silk shivers. Were it within my power I would weave a shawl on the warp of night and protect the veiled mirrors from the fear in your faces. I would bury a small holy box of limitless ashes in a place only you and I could find.