One night the moon whispered her secrets
into the breeze,
who carried it in a song
to blow though the trees
There it settled
with it's consonants and vowels
Then away flew the moon's words
on the wings of an owl
Her voice traveled a great distance
till the little bird reached light
There through the window
was a writer in the night
So out perched the bird,
words whoo-ed into the silence
to be picked up by a candle's flame,
to reach the writer's iris
It was then in the dark
that the ink flowed onto a page
It was then in the dark
that the author's mind blazed
Times goes by
and we read these words, finely tuned
from the writer in the dark,
the messenger for the moon
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 12:07 AM UTC
One night the moon whispered her secrets
into the breeze,
who carried it in a song
to blow though the trees
There it settled
with it's consonants and vowels
Then away flew the moon's words
on the wings of an owl
Her voice traveled a great distance
till the little bird reached light
There through the window
was a writer in the night
So out perched the bird,
words whoo-ed into the silence
to be picked up by a candle's flame,
to reach the writer's iris
It was then in the dark
that the ink flowed onto a page
It was then in the dark
that the author's mind blazed
Times goes by
and we read these words, finely tuned
from the writer in the dark,
the messenger for the moon
