The moon crashes
into ocean night spilling
iridescence o'er me,
o'er half-opened eyes.
Bathed in the soft glow
of my friend holding me
beneath dappled shadows of
a whispering tree, I wake
from infinite dream to return
a blossoming flower—
A light has come to me now
in this midnight hour.

Have the courage
to tread the edge of
impossibility

where each stride
is a river of fault lines,
where love begins
rupturing boundaries
all at once.

Hear the tides surge
in a hue of indigo bliss
roaring, "how do you live
on the horizon
of an incessant abyss?"

An ocean of stars
have become none for
we have become one
after many nights.

The ground trembles
at the moon's glow
as blossoms ripen,
as the torrent within
us begin to soar and
the Earth greets us again;

Now is a good time
to live once more.

Every night
the Moon follows him

casting her eyes upon
a silver landscape

like a luminous guide
they travel together, him and her.

Across the sky
the stars bow as they pass

so do the trees sigh
even on days she's hiding

or shy— he can't tell,
only gaze

until she appears
when the darkest phase

is over and the clouds
part for her entrance,

when she is full
and everything's bright again

Under a temple of sequoia,
I do not fear your ravenous wild
which lives in everything—
flowering desire.

What drives my folly
drips longingly with mad nectar,
finds your mystery alive in my eyes,
mystery coloured in vibrant azalea.

There is no forest, just
deciduous portals to other worlds.

Beneath an outgrowing meadow
of detritus, decay has a lurid scent
of pine that lingers; And your roots

guide my descent into the darkest deep,
a thousand years into the Holocene.

Show me
how to carry this endless dream.
Make me remember where
I am and will always be:

in raindrops streaming
to the understory,

in hollowed trees pulsing rivers
of sun in between,

in conifer transpiring seeds
from branch to leaf,

in earthworms relishing
the sweetness of skin,

in the enduring vision of you
that exists in the marrows
of me.

Maybe in time
touched by waterfalls of memory,
I will return to your world again—
cloaked in dirt and evergreen.

His blade
is a stainless mirror
with edges tempered
to bend and breathe
a mortal whisper.

It cuts perfectly inside
the one who crosses the night,
restlessly tearing its blinding veil
for a glimpse of tomorrow's light.

The wanderer sleeps
with the enemy within,
ready to pierce his life
in a single dream

and so he enters —unafraid,
the endless doors of undoing,
for all that empties into the blade
is a lightness of his own becoming.

Deep the wounds may be
yet he never bleeds;
His blade is an undying breath
when Death follows beyond him.