I am a night owl–
night dweller–
seeking refuge in the respite that comes at the end of
every unyielding day.
The black sky is a blanket
that cloaks me with calm–
raven wings enfolding me.
In the night,
I am a bird.
I fly off to observe other worlds that exist
far beyond where the daylight reaches.
I am nocturnal,
and when the sun rises,
I am exposed–
a pale ghost,
trapped in the wrong dimension.
Quiet,
I observe the living from my glass cage–
wings clipped.
My dreams are like furniture that make
this confined space
livable.
My hope is a pillow to rest my head on when I grow weary.
When the Witching Hour comes
and I am in the land of the dead,
I can walk through walls.
I can live other lives.
I can keep my soul–
all for the price of
being
alone.

A mystic scene, around the edges frayed–
My numb feet wandered through a shadowed wood.
And then, with weary sigh, my sole form strayed
Along a path to where a lone tree stood.
Its solemn branches whispered in my ear,
While bending at the touch of winter wind,
A secret song for no one else to hear–
Accepting me despite how I have sinned.
I cling to gnarled roots and start to cry;
I lift my eyes and through the branches see
A single bluebird soaring through the sky,
That’s twisting, dancing, flying over me.
And through the fog, I hear its joyful song
And realize it’s been springtime all along.