The stars and the moon peer down from their dark cacoon,
At the man who walks upon the shadowed fields.
The lights of the town, sit flickering atop the swollen hill,
They will not sleep nor will they lie still.

What a beautiful place to be lost and unknown.
To run your hands where the wind has not yet blown.
But he does not know this, lest he loses his confidence,
And continues as though he knows where to go.

The valley is wrapped in the beautiful cold,
Where the stars do not warm and the wind does not blow.
The cold that holds warmth down in its belly,
The stomach of the beast. ‘Not to fret’; says he.

The air below the sky and above the valley,
Is strange and it’s quiet; not light, nor is it heavy.
The air coddles him and asks him questions,
And looks him in the eyes as though they’ve not met him.

From the corners of the earthy bowl, the wind howls and blows and bites,
And sting his eyes and make him cry,
And kiss and ***** his stinging face,
And wrap him in their cold embrace.

Still, he walks, through the golden sheaths,
The trees on the border talk ‘neath their heavy leaves.
Close to him you can hear his breath,
Warm and cold and deep in his chest.

The bones of the sky are milky white,
And the arms of the earth embrace the night.
‘Defy me’. Says he, and ‘discover me’, says they,
‘Before our arms are wrinkled and old and our bones are cold and grey.’

‘Break me and bind me, but you can’t defy me.’
‘search me and map me, but you won’t truly know me.’
For it is he and it is I that beg you to defy,
The very thing that we create, the success we crave and the mistakes we make.
How weak we are when we think we’re strong,
And how we know they are right and we wish we were wrong.
But pull me from my reverie and make me cry and make me see,
That it is better to be in your dark cacoon
than to be as sad as your milky moon.