here, time is a truck
with waxed wheels. but it
keeps pacing, keeps paving the path
to destruction; in dreams, I pluck

myself from its sheath, let it sweep
over me like a tide; on the
ground, I gather my garments,
as stones and seashells, slip

into their ethers, where eternity
waits. here, pyramids don’t converge
as they taper; they tunnel
like a lair that has lost its lucidity

& I’m wandering within their walls,
clueless, clouded—a captive child
eager to escape into enlightenment,
or another dream, where bliss befalls.

this is a paper-dream gobbling
reality—down to its
bone, bruised bare & bleeding.

Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be moonlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Published by The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Grassroots Poetry, Inspirational Stories, Jenion, Poetry Webring, Starlight Archives, TALESetc, The Word (UK), Writ in Water

Keywords/Tags: Night, starlight, moonlight, mystery, flowers, roses, petals, thorns, seashells, feathers, rain, rainbow, treasure, *** of gold, romance, romantic, romanticism, love, passion, desire, longing

Sometimes I wake up
To seconds that float in oblivion
Before it all floods back in waves

Dreams sewed into webs of thread
Sunshine caught in shards of glass
Seashells echoed on ears' shores

But in a sanctuary of stars
Lies the peaceful silence of unborn stars

black circles traced his eyes
and a headache for days,
he forgot all he used to be

replacing those lonely nights
with tears to keep him company
he took everything he had
and soon went missing

not from the world
but from himself

smoking sativa
to try and bring him down
from the fog
of the clouds

a backpack full of
broken dreams
and bottled memories
he crushed them

and threw them into the tide
waiting for the waves
to turn them into seashells

During youth I was quite the collector
of ocean ******'s annealed sandcastles
Though the hosts inside could not be cheaper,
their fleshy coats were worth all the hassles

Content I was amassing worn seashells;
monthly did this fine collection accrue
Though furnished, barren felt those wooden shelves,
as even pearls are lesser than a jewel

Still, the sand was warm; the waves were soothful
and regardless of what hollowness struck,
the beach granted a chance to feel fruitful
so long as one had either skill or luck

Alone was I, but daresay not lonely,
but I was not merry until married.