what i write
here,
now ,
is truth
condensed, distilled
into poetic moonshine
to be consumed
by a creative soul
and then
for that soul to begin to dance
the exotic fandango,
or
the quickfire foxtrot
or
the haunting vienna waltz
whichever,
whatever,
beats,
within the willing heart
that dwells with quiet,
wistful wanting
in the backroom
of their psyche
so,
ignited
and
on fire
they dance
then,
they laugh
a joyous
unbound sound
producing
an exuberant euphoria
and a destiny of such
wonderous flight
so that,
they, you, me,
would see
the cosmos
from above at night
and marvel
at the stars,
stitched against the cloth
of darknest blue
then,
learn to love them
one and all,
as they,
those bright, shining things
float,
fly,
crash,
burn and fall,
for
as scribes,
we must learn
to write all the stages
of a
star's plight.
not just the
dizzying ephemeral heights.