When the day blooms and the light streams
Through the handcarved cracks
Of consciousness it inspires infinity.
The boundless light and undiscovered
Colours of the morning draw even
The birds to serenading, for the
First time, and for the hundredth.

I feel as if I am breathing sunlight.
As if I could raise my hand and weave
The wisps of clouds between my fingertips,
As simply as I lie here on the ground.
It is easier to dream when the sun shines.

At times like this I like to live in daydreams.

I like to dream myself into possibilities
As yet unsubstantial, even previously
Unthought of. I like to be unmade, unwoken,
Confidently lost amongst the scenes of
My mind's creation.

In the labyrinth I can find confusions,
Emotions, revelations unexpected.
But I always find hope.
A hope that keeps the sun shining.

And when days grow dull and wintry,
Spring blooms behind my eyes
As daisy petals and puppy ears
Melt through the rusted lock of memory.
To place me barefoot in the grass
On an immortal sunny day.

I am old chinese fireworks
Lit to fly and ready to burst
Handcarved dragon maw to the moon
Not a fire in a sky too low, too soon.
Not falling flames for the world
     To wonder,
          And splendor,
               Then routinely return
To that smoke
              stack
             stacked
                             for Mars.
     "Man, we're gonna need that moon sometime soon"
     "Yup, since we're already almost halfway there,"
                 they
                         say.
Was the last I heard before
                                           my fuse.
Turned to fuel for a change of language
     As I seek to speak
With Lady Luna's gentle carriage
We came to an agreement,
                                               a little one sided,
Cause she is always oh so terribly inviting,
Now falling fragments for the world
     To quake in its plates
          And gush its wailing gale
               Then her waters roil a riot
Upon smouldering creatures
That have got coal for eyes,
      And gold for glasses,
Blind.
     To this Earthen texture of past masses
Mastering textiles upon any form, or ghost,, of carcass,,,
Although Gaia may bury and forget
I must reveal Luna's barren
                                                parapet
As­ a flame is all that I see
Ways to show what a flame can be
Earth learns to burn, for me, and we.
Yet little, brittle, Mother Moon belongs to the sea.