What’s every color made, But mostly black and blue? Rolling its head on a page, Bleeding out, just for you.

I reach for the sky with a needle of stone, Born from a base, yet I stand all alone. Not quite a tower, but aiming up higher, A peak with a purpose, slim, sharp, and dire. Churches and castles wear me with pride - What am I called when I upwardly rise?

I'm soft without being liquid, light without being bright. I gather in corners and cling to your sweater. Clouds are compared to me, and I'm left after dandelions take flight.

I’m a curtain that opens and shuts without a sound, watching over the windows where the soul is found.

At night my children stab me, That's how I make their bed, Some look out with hollow eyes, The others have large heads, My children have two serpents: One flat, one thin I'm told, One stretches and squeezes to size things up, The other binds and holds.