they fall into slumbers
under mossy lumber
as we walk with the sun
when the moon bounces on hills
and the wheels slow down on mills
that's when they stretch their limbs
on cobble stone roads
and homes owned by groaning toads
they paint the fresh prints of tomorrows
so when we rise
in  misty morning tides
we will have a new place to go
but  who are these  things
the ones with paper mache'  wings
that glide for us in the night?
could they be malice
the one who pushes Alice
down into the wonderlands of our mind
or are they that saints
marching with golden shaded paints
to color our paths of divine
no one will know
for they mingle with just the crows
to us
they are simply the silent ones.