She sits beneath a dying moon,
Her voice a wound, a quiet rune.
She sings to loss, to faded years,
Each note a tremor made of tears.

The stars look on but do not weep,
They guard their silence, cold and deep. No echo stirs, no heart replies,
Just empty wind and empty skies.

Her love once bloomed now turned to stone, A rose that wilts unseen, alone.
She sings to ashes, to the past,
A song too fragile… to ever last.

I cannot understand the depth of shadow in front of me.
Only when i feel the touch do i realize how close it will always be.
Dancing in the distance, floating in space.
My eyes dart across the room, trying to make out the shape.

It disappears into the night,
Morphing and blending into the black abyss.
It grazes me, touches me.
Drawing out every breath,
As if i never knew the touch.

When light come i pull away,
My thoughts led astray.

Dancer in the divine it frightens me.
Just how alone I’ll always be.

I’ve been told I have walls,
That aren’t too easy to break,
They’ve been up for so long,
That my smile is entirely fake.
They’re made of unshed tears and a broken soul,
Of emotions that have taken their costly toll.
Tear them down if you feel you must,
But it takes too much to gain my trust
Strip me down to every pebble and stone,
Shatter me like a mirror and break me to the bone,
But don’t you see you’ve already lost,
For even my walls have a cost.

when the sky was young

and in a glass of rainwater
i sipped stardust
older than the moon.

the brief flicker of light
and I become a cloud
traveling wherever.

the whisper, a forgotten reverence
of when my sky was young.

the drop of grace
arrives gently,
time folds me inward
trying to understand my absence
from the sky.

mist lifts gently at dawn,
a stone warmed by the sun,

an imperceptible gift, dew on a flower,

the hesitant and graceful,
a leaf fluttering into view.

kneeling on a weeping star small,
intricate truths

adrift in a child caught dreaming.

Some days it's harder than others.
Because  in the dreams I refuse to wake from,
I've found my twin flame.
To light my wick and free me from
the darkness, I've been trapped in.

Shhh.
Silence.

The red robed supplicants
Are sequestered
Inside the Sistine.

They speak
In silent supplications
To the spirits
To pronounce a Pontiff.

The stewards are set
To send the smoke.
The smoke
That must be white.