And I blame the likes of JM Dematteis and Jon J Muth
for writing and Illustrating The Complete MoonShadow
so perfectly well
and Charles Baudelaire for leaving behind
his flowers for all the world
to smell the evil within their roots
and for Blake for his reeds and his tiger
and his heaven and hell
and for freezing eternity so we might all catch a glimpse
and for Bukowski and Hunter
for turning ugly truths into something beautiful
we could all enjoy hating
and for Shakespeare and Gaiman
and the dreams they weave
into the fabrics of our soul
and for the devil and temptation
and for god and shame
and for the laughter of children
and the tears of the grieving
who will never hear their children laugh again
and for those that paint
something beautiful out of all the pain
that they feel and see in the world
and the melancholy who sit high up
in dead tree branches to hang the moon
and the stars in the dark of the night
so the rest of us dont have to be lost and alone
in the lonely hours between sleep and dreams
and for each painful breath
that reminds me where love once lived
in my chest and each joyful sigh
that reminds that I'm still alive
and that somewhere between the shadows of doubt
and the glimpse of brief moments of hope
I still might find a seed shaped
like a heart beating  to plant in my hand
and sew over my chest
and I can meet death
with love still living inside the cold ground
where my body will rest

And I blame the likes of JM Dematteis and Jon J Muth for writing and Illustrating The Complete MoonShadow so perfectly well and Charles Baudelaire for leaving behind his flowers for all the world to smell the evil within their roots and for Blake for his reeds and his tiger and his heaven and hell and for freezing eternity so we might all catch a glimpse and for Bukowski and Hunter for turning ugly truths into something beautiful we could all enjoy hating and for Shakespeare and Gaiman and the dreams they weave into the fabrics of our soul and for the devil and temptation and for god and shame and for the laughter of children and the tears of the grieving who will never hear their children laugh again and for those that paint something beautiful out of all the pain that they feel and see in the world and the melancholy who sit high up in dead tree branches to hang the moon and the stars in the dark of the night so the rest of us dont have to be lost and alone in the lonely hours between sleep and dreams and for each painful breath that reminds me where love once lived in my chest and each joyful sigh that reminds that I'm still alive and that somewhere between the shadows of doubt and the glimpse of brief moments of hope I still might find a seed shaped like a heart beating  to plant in my hand and sew over my chest and I can meet death with love still living inside the cold ground where my body will rest