Too many tortured souls,
But here they found
A place to be set free.
Hello, poetry.

Today, I looked up, And saw
a tiny stain in the shape of a bird
Pressed to my ceiling.
How ironic, I thought
That such a moment of freedom
endlessly trapped,
Is still so free for the bird.

The mourning star falters
For in all the calm before,
It was forced to watch helplessly
As Earth grows up.
And yet, it still shines.

If day is life
And night is death-
Then what is dawn or dusk?
The death of death will dawn,
But life goes on and on

A honey-wax candle, dusty on the shelf,
With a wick so white and naïve.
It's sweet flame and dusky embers never licked,
For on a shelf it sits, unlit.
It never had burnt down
To ash, but its sweet golden crown
Sits safe on a dusty shelf.

The silver moon sighs,
Softly darkening skies,
Trapped in her crystal net;

The sun parades on
With a sapphire yawn,
Chasing his sweet Juliette

The heavy rain falls swift and stark,
On these hills, the wheeling lark
And sodden sparrow sing in the dark,
As the sea falls from the sky.

The wind blows strong, the trees all hiss,
The arrows strike an icy kiss
The water drowns in anguished bliss,
As the sea falls from the sky.

I pity him with no place to hide,
But wet, in frozen arms abide
A spark against this fearsome tide
As the sea falls from the sky.