Towering over edge, For those who drag and dredge, A monument to focus aim, But don’t go up the ledge. Spinning beams beckon, A landmark taming dark. Known to have a keeper, Who gives the saving spark.

Though not part of a tree, you could say it’s a log. Trophy logs made of gold are hung on artists walls. You can speak on or off it, drop a needle atop it, Or break it, just make sure that Guinness can watch it.

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.