I was surrounded by strangers as I looked out of the cruel airplane window - your horizon fell back with agonizing ease
and my soul became an eroding cliff
Bits of dying rock tumbled back down onto your shores
by no will of their own but by the natural grace of gravity

As i recall this now, feet chained to the under side of the universe,
part of me celebrates that half of my soul is missing from my chest
because it means that part of me still lives and breathes somewhere within you

The half light of sunset stretched itself past those sleeping giants on the shore - my lover said they looked like shy snails with their heads buried beneath the sand, as the light made its way into our hungry eyes

In a place made up of my own dreams,
the rocks timidly cover themselves with moss and vine.
Even in this place, made up of the purest honey and lullabies,
absence was conquered
not with a sword or a battle cry
but with a gentle sigh that brushed up against castle stone, the soft melancholic pull that inverted my chest

Why are you harbored so far off from the shore?
My dearest isle of dreams

From this fragmented stretch of time
from my strange heart away from this monotonous dream
I can feel myself exist
not in any tangible or beating form
but in the occasional breath that sails in from distant, trembling summer winds
in the moonlit and barefoot dance
a symphony of sun flickering on the forest floor
my lovers eyes
all of these places which are separate and fleeting
are the only places I ever am

Sea foam and moss covered rocks
sing thick songs of sad rage in solitude
I'm tangled and tossed in their sound

When the lavender and bluebells sleep
You bloom to the moon
When the stretching morning doves drape their songs over sunbeams
Your dozing and banished petals are lost
What sacrifices would you make for the night
For the wolves
For those great and dying stars?
Moonflower,
How many more would you make?
How much more would you miss?

Autumn almost feels like it belongs to places like these
Places that lounge in the waning maple sun
Places that graze on slow, foggy hymns of October
It's like they are quiet testaments to the dream that is Autumn