I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.

Maybe 10 years from today,
Maybe only 1 year away,
Or even just 1 day,
I will be able to say...

what if the
Moon is alive and she
is listening to us on Earth
and is looking up at a blue
crescent that fills her sky
wondering about us
from afar

does she see our city lights
dark against her starry sky

cryptic hieroglyphs
neon constellations

does she know
who we are
who reach
out to
her