Marbled floors and the glassy corners,
she turns.

Eons pass. The glassy bottom of spires.
Silver sparkles, she turns.

Something happens, cautious chances are blown,
words churn.

Bright nights, long hallways,
she turns.

Attentions undivided, flickers of light and running nights,
she turns.

And turn, and churn, she does.

Until the moments meet, droopy eyed and silken lighted,
she turns, he turns.

Worlds collide, lips meet.
And they turn. For turn and churn they must.

For the dying night.
And in every second, they churn.