Here I am,
reading my horoscopes again,
as if some persons perspective on what
the night sky reveals would also glimmer a foreseeable forecast on my own future.

Here I am chasing answers again.

I am like an Owl in the jungle.
Mice are vagabonds, fitting in anywhere,
dispersing where the wind whispers and warm nooks ******,
but owls, owls are more silent, nocturnal creatures,
Grounded, mysterious and peaceful predators, only seemingly at home in certain landscapes.

I am not scared of wisdom,
like the kind that gleams bright in those eyes,
or the wisdom of Father Winter, as he blows a cheek full of air from the north.
I am scared of fire.
Fire like the flames of a panther, although secretly I long for that burn.
Love is hate and hate is love.
Burn Burn Burn.
Burning every love letter and lace slip
So I may equip
myself with myself
and not possessions of faded passions.

I am dancing alone in twilight, creating hot breaths and echoes, the sounds of feet pattering over the dew laden grass of this lonesome forest, I am dancing wildly so I may feel my own heart beat, so I may know that I am still alive.

Why am I reading my horoscope for answers when only I can give myself the peace to all those silent prayers?

I am not an Owl, nor a Panther,
I am like both,
I am a moon Halk,
who glides gracefully,
who flies fiercely.
Soaking in
ever-ascending valleys
and ridges.
Riding life,
with pulsating wings,
an in-borne beating rhythm.

Crisp night fall..
the Halk swoops low,
to fly high,
leaving a reflection in  the ice
as she summits.

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