If the world was a stage and I was a play-write:

The wind: It was a musician, the muse of a heartbeat and whistling was its charm.

The leaves: The companions of the wind, they were the strings of the guitar. Dancing towards oblivion.

The flowers: They were the painters. A vision was their purpose. They played with colours and mystery.

The sun: It was the stage light, as it glowed upon the sounds of music in the air, the surface of the leaves, and gave life to all the trees.

The stars: They were the show stoppers, dancing in the sky. Revelling in the attention from the eyes of the observer.

The moon: The shy wonder of the night, sometimes barely visible. As it timidly sets the stage for another afternoon.

And lastly,

You: With a thousand stories to tell you’re in thousands of places at once. Looking for mountains to climb and things to design. You’re curious and too quick, never on the stage but merely an observer, but secretly you’re the whole show.


There are a thousand stories to tell,
So I’ll tell you a secret to this mysterious show
The script is blank, the pages clear white
And every minute new words appear
For I am merely following sentimental alliances
Just an observer watching as the future becomes clear.

It was my thing. It was our thing.
I'm not ready to share it with the world.
I want it to stay my thing. Our thing.

You don’t light up the world, but you allow me to see.
The truth still hurts,
But everything is now warm and full of life.
All the beauty around me,
I can feel it and touch it,
It wraps me like fog hugs the mountains.
I can’t help but slip into dreams,
Even while it’s right in front of me.
The worlds that you create break my mind into rosy memories to fuel my sentiment and comfort every day.

I would like to sit quietly with you
like to go all these places with you
Watch you change yet remain the same you
I would like to wear white with you

I would like to ride bikes with you
Want to be healthy and go slow with you
Put the top down smoking cigarettes too
Watch the powerful perfect tender you

Watch your rings see your necklaces swing
Feel the fire on our skin in the wind
Try and fail, **** up in sync with you
Try and fail, learn to just be with you

The early bird has nothing to attend
His caution cured throwing to the wind
Rising lands in a gold coat dawn
Blue Moon hangs out of spite to free insight
You and me under stars tonight

the best of both worlds
rolling water, blowing air
our heads aim zen but our bodies hang 10
taking ease limits risk in breaking leg
An act as planned should get out of hand
Snow in hell rang the rain check bell

Keep your view on the stars tonight
There's a common realm where our eyes align
You and me under stars tonight

The sconce on the wall
for crackling torches left burning for a returning
resents the assumption of infinite patience.
She's attached to an old brick wall;
not by affection, but by habit
and tools of the trade of attachment.
Occasionally-replaced simple screws worked into the bracket.
The wall is as dusty to touch, as divisive
as a tome of records, of laws of old.
The sconce respects history-- wishes more would become antiquity.
Knowing every flame left ardently lit, eventually burns out.
While here she stays.