Come now child why hang your head?
You are such as is made from stars!

Inventing the day,
Circular possessions,
All I own cannot be touched,

Everything lost in a fire,
Blazing nocturnal,
The slab of marble becomes
A tin marker,

Watching with stillness
As fleshes mesh with time,
     A poet remains:
The spherical elimination
   Casting lights on dark
I find my axis
      I find myself the epitome
And the footsteps
      In the puddles resound
In my minds echoes;
My body is a transparent verse,
        Night unfolds , I
Can see myself again.

      Listen to me as you listen
To the water,
     I am the unhindered thunder,
The shadow in the light's
     Ignorant glow,

      From my footsteps rise the
Steam,
I am still The DedPoet,
    As you sleep in your bed
I invent my new homes:
   Nightly I bocome a
Poem of The Nocturne.

The starlight sings to the dead of night
crimson lullabies from times long gone,
stories of sorrow, love and might
that keep the dark entranced til the break of dawn.

Though the sun rises, outshining the stars
their shimmering voices can still be heard,
their silver tongues weave tales of Mars
the great God of War and the battles he spurred.

They croon of the lovely Venus, goddess of love
whose body beguiled the lustful soul of man,
whose beauty enchanted realms below as above
and inspired tomes of poetry as only woman can.

As the sun grows weary and his brilliance fades,
and the cotton candy sky gives way to ebony,
as the phantom moon begins her promenade,
the stars reemerge and resume their symphony.

I have written love songs to the Moon
(hoping they would reach their destination)

no reply was forthcoming, not how I imagined,
only silence

but in this silence I found succour
in this silence I know love

love comes in a mysterious way
touches you places nothing else can.

Intimate with the night
I sprawl content

beached snuggled
in the folds of time

time that means nothing
but the turning of worlds.

We watch, report
Write it out
Then contort
Watchers, poets, writers, scribes
Feel too much
Wrenching, inside
Its our job, not to sleep at night
To think too much
About life's plight
One watcher, will be drawn to another
All akin,
Sisters, brothers, lovers
It's what we are
In ancient times
They called us,
"The Scribes"
Old souls,
We everyone bare
It's a hard business
Not at all fair
But it's our job, chosen or not
To see, to feel,
To "watch" every plot
Our thoughts, can drown us
Or perhaps, heal
But with every action
More is revealed
For we are the "watchers"
With purpose, we live
And with our words written, spoken
'Tis life, we all give

The day is slowly fading.
The night is almost here.
I'm looking for
Your presence.
But you are
Nowhere
Near.

these bones that hide away
have seen us thus far
thus far and no further
and the flesh falls off
as skeletons dance a jangle
round the graveyard night
while fleshy creatures
still in the flesh dream
dream that nightmares
are not real.

there is a night that lives behind closed eyes
where no day ever dawns
its deep and dark and is the place where all must travel
alone.