If the fallacy of thought
lies within the indifference
of a heart's indrawn
breath,
would there be a second
chance to mold a circle
from the intangible
fluid epic of dream?

Could so much blinding
light encompass the
derelict and the saved,
bathing all that is seen
in the breeze
of fairy wings that just
learned how to fly?

There are no shadows here
beneath a full moon of
illumination where
everything is cast into the
shade of pearls and silver,
one tinged with the sea,
another with air

At the core of a spiral
tree, in the hollow center
of a peach's eye
we could then look into
the unveiled truth of
Nature's simplicity,
separate the *******
from the poetry,
and the muse from the song

But if we're gathered here,
does that mean we're
about to meet our maker,
that this mystery of life
should be released in a sonnet
written through a fiberglass pen?

There are no strangers here
beneath the harsh glare
of a full moon,
where everything is reduced
to pearls and silver,
varying shades of pink
and gray

And if this litany is so
much scattered stardust
on the surface of an infinity
that can't be asked to care,
does it matter either way
if what we say is set
in stone or sand,
that our words remain
here as whispers caught in
the seashell of unending time?

Because there are no
secrets here beneath the
illumination of a
full-bodied moon
We are all children playing
amongst pearls and silver,
not knowing yet that our
trinkets have worth

We are still innocent
to war and strife and grief
So let us toss up our
circles of pearls,
let us trod over these
streets of silver,
let us gather here once more
before Eden fades into
the dark side of the moon...