a strange soft silence covers me like snow
like innocence still waiting to be spoiled
but just a little deeper down I know
there hides a solid mile of stone and soil

no tolling bell, no chime to mark the time
no clock, no metronome, no pendulum
only my silent mind that tries to mime
the illusion of equilibrium

every day I try to act
like I could let you go

it is tricky to retract
what you already know

I think you have seen through me
and into something real

I love you

but I'll never really tell you
how I feel

One night the moon whispered her secrets
into the breeze,
who carried it in a song
to blow though the trees

There it settled
with it's consonants and vowels
Then away flew the moon's words
on the wings of an owl

Her voice traveled a great distance
till the little bird reached light
There through the window
was a writer in the night

So out perched the bird,
words whoo-ed into the silence
to be picked up by a candle's flame,
to reach the writer's iris

It was then in the dark
that the ink flowed onto a page
It was then in the dark
that the author's mind blazed

Times goes by
and we read these words, finely tuned
from the writer in the dark,
the messenger for the moon