The Perfect Poem for Emily

Emily is the air that traverses the crystal breath of the sleeping sun.    
   
The perfect words slip between the tug-of-war on the runway dress of a distant watcher.    
   
Emily; think, "Emily".    
   
Those comets are lost in the grassy pages.    
   
Those comets, blue eyes,    
lost in a foreign land unadmitted by the speeding glance,    
but met by space-jumpers of read-between lines that hold the contents of her boundless heart.    
   
The shoulders relapsed into a spinning chair when suddenly Emily becomes the author    
and the sun was just a bulb she had made by the by as she donned the night gown of the drifting star-bled heaven.    
   
Underneath the illumination in the wind her hair flowed the rays of sunlight over her eager work.    
   
I wasn't writing. I was a character in the story.    
The perfect poem for Emily was only the reflection of her she knew from the film of another's eyes.    
But now they are filled with mist.    
The designer sees herself enshrouded in the thoughts she spoke and stood as assuming as a rainbow on the ruffled tide.    
Composer became composition to a thumping chest-cage once again,    
bating her right hand through the brazen thread of the Arabia under the view of flying carpets,    
and cracks a smile.    
Is it her or me or her spirit like the waning-summer Westerly that writes this tiding now?    
   
It was Emily. Yes, it was Emily    
who sent my blood boiling to the extremities    
wherefore to decorate in epithet that which pumped the fantasy to harbor.