The moon obscured by twilight fog
   is like a sentinel,
   guarding the acrid smell
   of the veneer of doing well,
     when really, deep down
   I feel like hell.

The deepest corners of my heart conceal
   a darkness
     and a confusion
       more real than real.
   I feel like I myself want to steal
     my whole life's foundation
       and take it far away from me.

Like the moon obscured by the fog
   I want to be free in the rain
   to run again
   to feel the same
   as when I played that game
     of life
     and of love
   but the moon's obscured by a fog
     from above.

If only I could see that light
   reflected through the cloud.
I yearn to feel how bright
   that moon tonight
     calls silently,
   but is yet so loud.

The weights and forces balanced on my mind
   are like a shard of possible time,
   slicing like the punchiest rhyme,
   and frequently taking my breath away
     like a thing sublime.
It seems I cannot help but stop
   to pause,
     to think.
Whenever there's a drip of beauty,
   I drink,
     even in the slog of cloudy days
   I'm right on the brink.
     It's the kind of thing that you may communicate
   with a wink,
       but that would never be enough.
Not even the poet's last lines
   drafted with enchanted ink
     could capture this feeling.

I stare up at the moon,
   her bright eyes obscured
       by a fog.

The grace of your limbs and your falling hair
   cataract on my daily minutes like spilt tea.
Colors and fragrances of delicate beauty,
   interwoven in two tones.
An auburn hue encroaches on the edges
   of the sequence of events that is my life,
       and you are the center of their waveform.
A softly spoken word, let loose on the edge of a thought,
   an unspoken meaning and a leaning towards each other.
It is as your hand is in mine,
   when I look at you from a distance,
as if our words are a dance,
   a rhythm,
       and our smiles the melody.
Counterpoint, your responses feed my breath
   as water to a leaping gazelle,
and my heart beats with the pulse of your next smile.

My thoughts, a melange in my mind.

A few comprise bits of cosmic dust
   and strands of light
   from birthing stars.
A couple stained with drops of blood
   from rocks, earth, and fire.
At least one is like a marble bookcase.
   Leather-bound tomes with silver filigree
   store memories of many things.

Some float and some fall.
Some are taciturn and some call.
Some are hot and some are like
   stones in the winter moonlight.

They speak and move,
   even in sleep.
They weave dreams
   and paint tapestries of colored hope.

These with ocher hue
   tell of a body woven into earth.
Those, the deep blue of a midnight sun,
   breathe with the peace of stars.
Some scattered forest greens
   sing of beauty.
Bright orange, the guardians
   watch the tides ebb and flow.
Royal violet hopes of things
   that will never be
   but yet excite.
Hopes of rain-spotted silver,
   wreathed in gold and auburn,
   hopes of truth and justice.

My thoughts, a melange my mind.

as if one summer night would
   stop to kiss the cheek of winter
        winter
   my sandaled feet chill,
       awash in starlight
   the waves, like a slivered memory
       pure and silver,
       carry the faint heartbeat
      of many things come and gone
summered waters blow through
   their courses of hair
   in soft syllables to the ear
   they touch stones of fire
   alive in the eyes of the mind
how many hearts or ripples
   of moonlight have walked here?
   here, where new clouds breach
       ancient skies and stones
       of rivers of many things
           come and gone
   smooth and silver are the drops
       of time, which wash
       slivered memories
           of summer
   by the light of a cool moon

There as I sat it spoke to me,
   this wall of asymmetric cracks.
Its faded, soaked cement remained.
   Its light red bricks answered back.
Past these chips of aged white
   the blue sky hung with wispy cloud.
A distant bird with creeping weeds
   through ancient windows spoke aloud.
Here light enfolds these steps of prayer
   where new fresh grass is listening.
The hedges kept with varied plants
   in waving breezes are glistening.
This ruined wall tells its story
   of faded asymmetric glory.

I walked along a quiet shore
   and wanted not a beauty more,
when lo, behold, near rocks and sand
   a tree stood there, perfectly planned.
Its feet were buried in glistening waves.
   The sun was lapping moss and age.
Its hands and fingers watching ever
   carefully. Its break came never.
A grizzled white in bark that shines,
   an emerald green moss dressed like vines,
a deep and stalwart blue in motion
   framing ageless tree-shaped notions.
Stopping once to glance I thought
   a moment passing, freely bought,
a gift in fact when glance and glance
   became a more meditative stance.
A perspective in my mind was growing,
   deeply, newly, freshly knowing,
standing there to watch time passing,
   leaves changing, questions asking,
peaceful still with answers fleeting,
   we, the tree and I, were meeting.

a misty start
   with worlds to go
a walk through forest,
   desert, snow
with altitude
   and dizzy joy
a challenge which
   my strength employs
a peaceful summit
   waiting warm
where thought and poetry
   find form
from near the sun
   our minds turn
to worlds below
   we will return


-TylerN @ 10,040 feet, 2018.05.12