to water a dandelion
like a rose
to read poetry
in prose

to see white
when it's painted black
to think it's given
but it's taken back

to catch a glimmer
in shade
to think I've had it all
for all it to fade

to call a foe
a friend
to think we start
we end

Half moon hanging low.
No one gets elated now.
Waiting for full glow.

space-poet is fine by me
suited up long ago
accepted the sacrifices
heard the countdown
blasted off completely free.

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

oh lord
when
i
call upon your sweet name
then
you
walk across the still water
where
i
have faith
without
borders
uplift
my spirit
within