silent is the night,

for the creatures of day

in this kingdom of shadow

are with eyes shut tight.

all but the lone,

the restless in the sky,

searching; observing;

soaring high and high.

all but the owl,

alone in the night.

let him sing his song of sorrow

for chance his joy return tomorrow.

for chance his joy forsake his life,

he’ll tell himself he shall be saved

by love returned, and free from strife,

but naïve he shall remain, enslaved.

are you doing,

or are you overthinking?

are you progressing,

or are you moving?

are you living,

or are you worrying?

do some.

progress more.

live.

gleamed amongst the wild green

appeased buds, shined and sheen

this field of blades not red, but green

for rain erased the war it had seen.

one and another played a game in the forest

where the dark trunks rose tall

and the creatures were a chorus.

the delicate blue air in the midnight’s gloom

left one disoriented:

are the sounds one’s voice too?

one wondered and wandered, but after some time,

another’s voice and one’s thoughts

intertwined in one’s mind.

one cried and one protested, one just didn’t know;

was one even moving?

for one lost feeling in one’s feet below.

the cold wind blurred one’s sight, and nothing seemed clear

so one closed one’s eyes

overtaken by fear.

one was without feeling, legs to chest, and even one’s face.

now all one wanted

was another’s kind, warm embrace.

what is a greater yield to life

than to bleed your heart, etch your soul,

cast aside hatred without strife

and learn to love, so you may be full.

dear                  ,

exalt your stature

as the prided flower

in this field

of the wilted.

the night sky is clear,

the stars, bright.

there is no fear here,

no anxiety tonight . . .

just loneliness.

what is love

but nonsense,

without the

consequence.

i do not care for grand glory, nor fame,

for inspiring just one, means all the same.