there are no simple moons. above all there are only storms that emblazon joy upon havoc
or sorrows beyond the reckoning of angels with bittersweet tinsel
in forgotten trees… nodding off in a forest you forgot.
all tomorrows in the wrong hands is when you wake-cling to the illusion of Otherness
and come seldom to the symphonies that designed You
to spite the Shadow,
it would be wise to eat more flowers
than toadstools.., but more wise
to love on purpose.

In Bloom.