Night fell swiftly as she began to climb
The hill upwards one trudge at a time
And when she reached that grassy peak
Her heart - it stopped, she could not speak
For beneath her lay in all its glory
The city so flawless and often in stories
It was a black canvas as dark as ink
And was so large she seemed to shrink
And across the canvas brilliantly flecked
Were flakes of gold - no special effect
The lights they danced and winked and beckoned
So perfect, so pure for every second
But when she realised she had to leave
She wore her heart upon her sleeve
Her face wistful and longing expressed
For the view from atop the hill's crest.

We sleep
Beneath the tree boughs;
Beckoning brights, dancing between branches.
We rest
Underneath a canopy of suspended glitter;
A quilt of infinite fabric
Woven from inter-netted eternities.
A noiseless face
Bathed with interstellar dust
Across her freckled constellations.
A perfect cosmic cadence
Dissolving into dawn.

Drink the stars.*

Consume them and let them course through your bloodcurrent,
Carrying the fluorescence to your furthest capillaries.
You will see glowing veins scintillate beneath your skin,
As if a thousand cracks are forming on your body--
Allowing the pureness and beauty of your bright soul
To escape its host.

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Around you, the vivid shapes ebb;
recede and reduce to a wispy gossamer.
Look there! By the horizon:
glitter (or dust?) dissolving upwards,
a pirouette at the astronomical dawning
of consciousness.
This "hypnopompia": an intermission.
An interlude.
The in-between of inter-netted eternities.  

How long have you been here?
And have you been here before?  

You are nowhere. You are everywhere.
Perhaps it is time to wake up.

The Air hung tremulous
Waiting with curious expectation
Her mind gliding with Tidepool Dreams
Waves caress the sand - playful.
Teasing.
She listens
To the song of the Sea
The laughing foam becoming giggling mist
The ***** seagull's cry with false grandeur
The weary Wind sighs with a breeze
And Her. In solitude.
Waiting,
*Waiting.

There is a place

Where moonbeams can be spun into silk
And shadows are as soft as velvet.

Where even time himself has paused to admire
The star-lanes embroidering the sky.

Where whispering ferns uncoil
To have their edges painted silver.

Where flora flirt, and you respond
With the faintest blush -
A playful petal on your cheek.

Where night-thinkers hum in an intertwining dissonance
Weaving a pleasant acoustic haze

Amidst a rhythm discernible to those
In Lunabrink.