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.