The crescent moon be my perch.
        A bough from which I extend my arm.
Careful fingers grasp my brush...
And with it I shall fill the void
with the universe.                

               The crescent moon be my hammock.
Upon which I lean fully into,
to seek restful recluse.                
Should my body start to buckle...
        From the heavy hopes of wistful eyes.

   The crescent moon be my anchor.
From which I draw                
my inspiration and strength.
                   She would cradle and sway me gentle...
      When wilting hearts spill unto me
the callous wiles of the world.    

The crescent moon be my well.        
A fount through which my palette        
remains full with an                                 
abundant array of silvery white.        

Just so...                                 
I could conjure for others,
       what their hearts so desire.

Just so...                      
I could grant them       
             needed solace and tranquillity.

Just so...                 
                          I could infinitely paint for them
the stars...

If this tree
should ever come to fall

Let its gnarly limbs
point up to heaven

If its heart
should ever come to a stall

Let it die
with errors pardoned
and sins forgiven

the hardest thing is faith
even with my best try
it's my own fate i create
it's me, myself, and i

it is such a heavy weight
under this silent sky
will i see the pearly gate
will i burn when i die

the hardest thing is faith
looking God in the eye
will my ways make my fate
of whether i fly or fry