Hue of the Arc

A person is beside me, looking to see if we find the true pastime.
Seeing more than smog upon the sky.
Whispering the song of love onto my ears that rumble with passion.
The mood is sweet and can never be stopped nor popped.
Inside my mind comes a hopping little swan.
Touching the every spirit i have with no remorse.
Wondering if it will last when the raven stops pecking the dwarf tree.
Dust is floating beneath the floor six feet under the grain of salty sand.
On the other side of the valley lies what we must have in our hands.
The clear stone makes a deer jump with joy.
But one thing for sure we must never find; the golden pot.