fireflies -
alflame at dusk
we dead moths

this is the moon's
quiet rose, the unfolding
of the clouds, tranquility
resting her head,
the beautiful sea.

There once was a poet from Crewe
who'd down at the pub had a few
he couldn't write a sonnet
though his life depended on it
So in the end he wrote a haiku.

You never really bother keeping time at all.
All you wish is to spend eternity in that moment.
Alive and dead in that moment,
Framing yourself—outside the sands of time.

I think we pray when we say
that sweet word "tomorrow"
that in a way we betray
our fear of greater sorrow
That we play monk and we play lover
in the hope that we'll see colour
rather than replay the grey
when we say "tomorrow"

And as we lay in the haze
of all that we don't know
perhaps we'll praise this great ballet
of what must surely follow
Or we may curse and we may rage
as we take unto the stage
as we dance away the day
when we say "tomorrow"