Grey moons, two of
them. Directing the ebb and
flow of my desire. Pulling my
heart forward where it turns
back to recede on the
horizon of my restraint.
The shorelines of my soul are
littered with washed-up
experiences, left by the
vessels who have been
destroyed in the stormy seas of
my tumultuous love.

Entwined in this seemingly
Endless dance. We stare at
Each other, neither daring to
Make the first move. The
Tension is tangible. The
Smells of unspoken restraints and
Inner conflict sift through the
Air that lies between us.
It is a dance performed
Without motion. An action
Without movement.

Sometimes I hate
Every single word I write.
Nothing can be good enough,
For what is a word? A mere
Vessel. A vessel can not be a
Complete expression of that
Which it carries. For how could a
Vase of water contain the
Vastness of the sea, or the
Power of her waves? My words:
Futile attempts. Mere vessels, a
Partial representation of a soul's
Cry. What am I left with?

She dances so very softly.
Slender feet carry her across the
Infinite expanse of my mind.
Gliding, she's striding over pains and
Apprehensions as she brings me in
Closer, holding me tightly to her chest.
The heartbeat is soft, so very steady.
The eyes, like two beautiful stars.
Choicest of the heavens, none like them
Exist. They glisten, penetrating my soul.
Casting pure gazes upon me; so very beautiful.
I open mine, and alas, she is gone.
Yet I still hear that little pitter patter
The sound of her feet tapping inside
So very quietly.

These words are meaningless.
Like crumpled up husks or
A pile of ashes. They'll be
Blown about and tossed by the
Wind and yet I still find myself
Writing them.

It has always perplexed me
The unspoken laws of nature
The fowls swiftly follow their
Undeviating migrant patterns
Like long highways- better than man
Will ever hope to build.
The wolf never leaves the
Woodland heights. An invisible
Boundary is laid between the creatures
Of the desert and the creatures
Of the forest. The ones who live in the
Dark, dank ponds and the woodland
Shallows are never seen roaming
The grassy plains. What is it about man?
Is it his sense for adventure?
Or his passion for destruction?

Tethered in cement fields
By steel clocks
Nothing is real.