He Moves In Patterns

His form of ashes drifts among the sails
He is their light - he dances in his half-forgotten radiance
And lands among the twisted spindle wax.
Never frowning, never caring -
Simply being without ending.
And while he stamps his many feet and laughs,
Creating flurried patterns in the flowers,
The crowd parts in silence.
Pausing to gaze hungrily through the mirror,
Their oval eyes yearning
To watch his innocence.
The air holds its breath, then glimmers alone.