My starlight.
Always there,
Every night.

Though in the day,
I cannot see you
Or find my way,

You are there,
On the other side
Of a glass sky.

I listen for you.
Every night,
Nothing there.

Yet I see you,
Hanging there,
Watching me.

My starlight.
Always there,
Every night.

The toppling hyacinth,
Excitedly bursting at every corner
To show the world its colour.

The soft chrysanthemum,
A rosy brush of autumn's breath,
So stoic in their blush.

The pale gardenia,
A soft unfolding in cautious masses,
The tokens of a lover.

The quiet lilac,
Without a care for frill or grace,
Growing where it may.

The meadow shifts.
There is such blissful sorrow
In watching flowers bloom.

Footprints so carelessly left in the sand:
So varied, haphazard, yet one common band.

The confidant jogger, the beach-combing wren,
The legions of desperate women and men,
Each of them leaves behind wet indentations
For those so inclined to survey and relate them.
How heavy the footsteps of those bearing burdens,
While almost an outline from those sans diversions.

These footprints so often abandoned are strange,
For they effect any who come into range.
How so many strive to make some path go noticed,
When often the same ones leave marks out of focus.
Ghosts of the efforts of steps left behind,
Yet lost to the ages, anonymous finds.

But one thing unites all the grainy debris:
These footprints will be swallowed up the sea.

Ripples of intention on green water,
Little drops of dissonance in a modal symphony.
How ugly they seem, ruining the serenity.
Yet what would it be without them?

An ocean without waves,
Sterile and alien:
Merely air turned bitter and dingy,
Like a stagnant fog in silence.
Could we call it the sea without that gentle murmur,
A mother's reassuring whisper
To her frightened babe?
And the stay of the light on a featureless mirror,
Nothing but a cruel reflection
Of grotesque perfection?
Not the sea, but a purgatory,
Ugly in every impeccable detail.

It is only with amorphous intention,
Impressions of consciousness,
That the golden sun can play
In the dimpled sand, the swaying grass,
And the eyes and souls of artists alike.
It is only in the imperfections
That beauty can truly be seen:
Admired for its perseverance
In the face of nature's adversity.

Where else would raindrops fall?

A walk through lilting breeze
Down memories of old,
Alone with thoughts of you
In sunset's sinking gold.

The boundary blurred by love
Where flowing hair meets wind.
In every calloused step
Those images rescind.

The echoes of my feet
A heartbeat brings to mind;
The old familiar friend
Now seashells in the tide.

Some call it moving on,
While some in madness hold:
But call it what you will -
The story stays untold.

How East and West have borne an angel indescribable to man:
In every detail flawless, gorgeous, a jewel in ways unseen, unplanned.
I long for you, you precious diamond, in ways I have not felt before;
Your every movement fills my heart with reckless happiness, and more.

But I do not deserve you angel, not now nor will I ever so:
Your radiance is mirrored only by my undeserving soul.
How could a man of simple skills so dream to call perfection his?
But maybe one so humbly met might show you what perfection is.

I am not handsome, only fair, yet would that not your grace enhance?
I am not brilliant, yet intellect has never given stranger's glance.
I am no prodigy my dear, yet creativity in bounds;
Enough to write ten-thousand songs if smiles could be borne of sounds.

I am not strong, yet broad of back,  enough to bear your burdens well.
I am not brave, but that won't stop my staunch protection from all hell.
I am not perfect, not like you, but you should love me all the more,
For what slight flaw you may lament my humble plainness shall restore.

So now you have my simple words, along with all my heart can give;
I wish I were the flawless creature you deserve to love and live.
But though I lack in every sense, there is one trait that I do harbour:
This heart of mine is bursting forth. I love you, darling, like no other.

"You're gonna get tired of me."

Does the flower tire of the sunrise?
The dignified return of that life-giving face,
A crude facsimile of your smile;
How could one tire of that?

Is beauty ever dulled by use?
Does the sheer effect of observation
Cause your elegance to somehow diminish?
How could one tire of that?

You dearest love, you aethereal muse,
You flawless stone cut from nature's sun-kissed tears,
The day I tire of you is the day my madness
Plucks me from this plane
And births me anew,
To again fall prey to your resplendence,
As the sun after each set.

Tired? Only of your absence.