Son of 6 word story -- 6 (or less) lines of 6 words each

Sun glints from motes of mica
Buried within the tall granite cliffs.
She patiently waits for him there,
Seeking his sail and his return,
Even though her body passed away.
 
Burning deep inside with incandescent rage,
Sombre one-winged angel, aluminous and proud.
Destiny: monstrous, empty like my heart,
Come, do not let me die!
 
The clock of time's grown rusty;
There is grit between the cogs.
In the uncoiling of a spring,
The pulse of tides is stilled,
Birds hang silent, their wingbeats suspended.
Will someone please contact the clockmaker?
 
With more grace than a cat,
She moves only in twilit hours.
Blending with shadows darker than night
She stalks her unwary, sleeping prey.
Her magic's not the usual kind,
But it is no less effective.
 
There in the dingy little laundrette,
People talk about their boring lives.
Clothes of red, blue and green,
Tumble like salad in a colander.
 
Sparkling maiden on a leafy path,
Ever-bright angel with halo of light.
Which is which, who are you?
You are day, I am night.
 
He writes his spells in constellations,
In runic figures across the sky.
Wizards seek them in ancient burials,
In secret rituals of fallen temples,
Decayed cities, immemorial pyramids -- blinding themselves
To the glory of the firmament.
 
Taking diamonds from the very earth,
She set them in the sky.
Instilled in them her holy light,
That banishes the dark of night,
Now even at the witching hour,
Faint, long and eldritch shadows lie.
 
Quaking aspen in winter's pallid light,
Air like crystal, cold and clear.
Shivering branch shedding snow, white powder,
Dancing as it sprinkles all around.
 
Emma kneeled crying behind the gym.
Why wouldn't they leave her alone?
Why couldn't the school stop them?
She needed to escape the bullies.
She wanted to go far away.
A different world was her desire.
 
Oldest of trees, gnarled and bare,
What of the years gone by?
Where are the Greeks and Romans,
Who used to pick your fruits?
 
Three times three, nine subtle steps,
Through the veil, into brazen light.
Incautious wayfarers risk their mortal necks,
Under the glow of the Circumbright.
 
Y-shaped glacial lake, towering mountain peaks.
What a gift this land bequeathed!
 
(I am astonished by the creativity displayed here. You are all so good.)


A Potion to Poison a Rival

Take two drams of graveyard dust,
pinch of hatred, pint of envy,
stir it up with spiteful thoughts,
season well with salt of tears
and serve it cold with malice.
 
A mahogany box with polished clasps,
Burnished to an eerie looking gleam.
A sense of unease surrounds it.
What mysteries or evils lie within?
 
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