Books are like the sun’s rays,
Still giving off fingertip warmth,
Though long cut off from the source.

Books are sunlight and Greek silence
Captured in glass firefly jars.

Paper lantern prose,
Crematorium of hearts,
Beating quick to ash.

I'd like to think I am something specail. That i have some hidden talent, too shy and unpolished to crack the surface.
I'd like to think I just ignore my skills. Almost like my subconscious mind knows that the world could not handle such a powerful force as I at my peek. I think I tell myself these things...
So that I feel okay with knowing that I do not know.
For trying could mean failure. For failure, well, that will mean the serects I am feeling, the hidden talents I tell only to myself....could be just that...only to myself. I could be nothing.
I could be ******.
A *******.
With no talent or skill or common sense.
But...in this why...I am a ******* with a quite hope.
And that's enough for now.

This is the only time we'll ever meet.
You could be in a cafe
Or a bus as you read this.

My words travel to your eyes
Like light into an event horizon.
Whether you remember me or not
Will never matter.

My name is not important,
But don't let that fool you,
Our meeting is as grandiose
As the creation of life itself.
For my light may flash
A heavenly bright torch

So long as your mind
Can make the right choice.

There’s a place in my dreams,
I go to each night.
I have wings like a bird,
And somehow I can fly
Through smokey red sunsets
That set me on fire
The closer I soar towards the sun.

Feathers turn to flames
And leave trails of burning ashes
Swirling down into the trees below
Who’s crooked arms reach out and try to snag my wings.  

As the sun beams start to descend
The moon begins to rise
I’m burning out,
Lost track of time.
I plummet to the forest floor
And leave behind the sky,
Looking up I wonder, will I ever fly again?