The nightsky is alike a mighty mansion of the stars which then
twinkle in elegance, beauty and transience until the dawn outshines them in a graceful manner.
As the night turns away from the sun and from her light, danger
in our imagination could await, from the corners of our very mind.
Yet the stars make up a soft blanket, a cover of the calmest of light,
which could bring peace to a soul which is performing a rampage.
All the constilations, all the names and forms which reveal themselves, are but a heavenly spectra for those who are nocturnal.
Or for those, whom have meet the cruel fate to be allergic to the natural, straight forward, warming and blissful sunlight.
There is no soul with no protector, in the nightsky such would be
a bright,piercing star, standing proud,manifest its location is over you
Holding many wonders, the beauty of the night comes with shooting stars, which at times shortly sweep over the heaven before fading.
Wishes are made upon, hope fills their hearts, for a better future
or a fulfilment of their desires, tangled up within the depth of mind.
Night becomes bright once the moon shines, in its fullest posture.
Becomes dark once the rainclouds drive near, calling in thunder.
But most importantly, it is a time of rest, from all this earth beholds


~ Umi

Where one could only place a thought on  rest,
but for a moment, reflections that are addressed  
on eyelids needing the collection of bedtime unrest.

My blankets are woven in comas of oppression
as when my eyes are entombed and depressed.
No one realizes that when they pass this dispossessed
huddle, lives life never given a moment as were oppressed.

For below this perceived cluster of a homeless man dressed,
is the dignity of man once upon a time blessed.
But I fell or stumbled, now my body slumbers on a headrest.
All that others see is a robin who lost his dignified vest.

Seeing through eyes blanketed by a
Fuzzy blanket, only intended for winter recess
Winter recess where the snowflakes drift in and
Out of ocular view, demanding to be looked at.
Japanese paintings folding, unfolding, transforming into
Little blurry bubbles of dark greens and
Blackened blues.
Glorious sunsets, smearing the sky with red hands look
Flattened.
They’re dry and hands cannot rub enough waterfalls and
Raindrops into them,
Leaving spider webs, fresh with rouge.