Morning dew falls,
tears from the stars.
The coyotes call still echos.
The moment i tried to capture ,
the night before,
stained slanted on old paper,
is smeared.
Its a reminder from the night that some things should be left alone.
Secrets of the night.
The morning still feels like night.
[sometimes its too hard to decipher between wrong and right.]
When i close my eyes i cant tell the difference.
What is it about sight that feels the need to divide two things that are much the same into things so vain?
[how can two things feel the same but be different?]
Nothing changes between the dark and light.