When the veil splits apart,
and you come to me in dreams,
even on the coldest night,
it is not blood that surrounds you.

Not destruction or a blast radius,
no sharpened blades encircle,
nor heavy boughs of sorrow
drooping like the willow tree,

but the warm and simmering ghost
of the golden hour,
dripping through green leaves,
falling on hardwood floors,

and the silver whispers
of the night sky’s pale rays
cascading over tangled vines,
encircling your head like a crown.

I see you.
Your gaze flickers to mine for a moment,
enough to burn through me.

You are concentrating.
You are feeling.
You are conjuring from the deep.

A flame dances in the palm of your hand,
as you reprogram the backend of the universe,
and all I can see is the fire in your eyes.

I look at you now.
You still do this.

You spark.
You weave.
You cultivate.
You snap and ignite.

Your embers pain mortal flesh.
Your song is molten metal.
Your heat is crimson emerald.
Your dance is black and gold.

I have watched you make wild things flourish.
I have seen what you incinerate.

You eat the light of the sun.
You drink the light of the moon.

Your power blooms.
It dies.
It grows and blooms again.

You smile in the face of winter.
Your laughter is lush and green.

No chain of frost nor bond of ice
would dare to tie you down.

You are undiminished,
even in these dangerous lands.

Do you understand?

Your magic has grown.

All I can see is the fire in your eyes.