that moon is nothing
short of super

how could I put it
in words?
there are no words,
there are no words

I struggle to find the words

and that tree
something I've never
seen

drowned in silver
fabrics,
cosmic silks
stellar feels

the moon could
encompass
the universe

but that tree is
defined by its roots
and its roots grow
so very deep

and that tree is dying
and that tree is real

and in death it radiates
absolute grace

absolute elegance

complete serenity,
morphed &
wronged by nature

but so pure
so purely pure

& in the tree's shadows,
stars in the sky
sort of waver, they
flutter lifelessly

the moon and
the tree,
yew I believe,
are the peak
of all I've ever seen

a moon that big, has
a lot of room for sour
thoughts
but that yew tree
is all that matters

that yew tree
is the most beautiful thing
I've ever seen

that super moon,
that literal super moon,
universally incredible
thing

something that emanates
all happy thoughts,
all tides,

it cradles romance
it embraces wonder

it is everything

and that moon,

well, that moon

that moon is (almost) as beautiful
as that yew tree

If art is defined as the expression of something beautiful or extraordinary,
then you, my dear,
are a *masterpiece

my first cigarette smoke was out of anger for a lover who left me hanging, bruised hearts and clammy palms, a puff that scratched at my throat which I smoothed down with a gulp of beer and regrets

my first cigarette smoke probably set my lungs on fire which made me smoke some more, day after day until eventually I felt my lungs were sore

I kept smoking and stopped trying to fall in love, an addiction like this is better to keep than to nurse broken ribs from a shattered heart

I would start with your hands.
Mine would dance with yours;
our fingers waltzing together.

Then they would become curious,
I know so.
My hands would glide up your arm
leaving a trail of goose bumps behind.

I don't know where your hands have gone,
but mine have reached the top of your shoulder.
My fingers can't resist
tracing your collar bone.

Your hands find mine.
I think they got lost
in the escalation of my own.
But they're together now.

Taking a hint from yours,
my hands reach to your chin --
only breaking contact
for a second.

My fingers have tilted your chin,
so our eyes can do a similar dance
to the one our hands have completed.

Hands are the utilitarian laborers
of the body,
but eyes guard the gates
to the soul.

My eyes search your own.
They are hesitant, but
my hands are always reliable.

They pull you into me
and at the last second
before our eyes close,
and our lips meet,
my eyes find what they knew was there.

with your hands You
hung the stars in the sky
and know them all by name.
You put the sun and moon
in their places and
with your hands You
made the roaring seas
and majestic mountains
and those same hands that
hung the stars and
placed the sun and moon and
made the seas and mountains
made this heart.

Is it just I who muses late?
Into the veil of the night?
The laconicism is crisp of darkness
Black and cold, menace foretold?

Am I the only one
In the whole of humanity?
Who cannot cease to wonder of
The thoughts of worthlessness

That my every trivial thought
Is a waste of lives that fought
To come into the world
To breathe and dance and rot,

In the deathly tempo of time
Reminder of lives gone by
In philosophical demise
My trouble helps not anything...

Still I lie here, heaving through,
I cannot finish this song for you.
That would be misleading, to falsify
That my life showed an inkling of purpose—

*Of anymore than just a cry.

Have you ever
Brushed a feather
Against someone so wrong
That they were absolutely perfect
And you could watch them,
As easy as forever
Dancing in a torrent of rain
Because they were enough
And you were enough
Even though they never said it
You felt it,
You felt it much too well

Yeah, neither have I
Perhaps that's why I don't cry

© 2014 Peach