Distant in the sky at night,
a profound and shiny light,
the moon slowly moves,
like a sloath on the roves.

A sensation in summertimes,
a cloud that sometimes
dresses the sky of white
when the moon guides my typewrite.

There's a typewrite on the desk,
What's on the paper makes no sense,
Random pleas for deliverance.

He's stricken,
Afraid,
Of all the webs that he has made.

Of love he wrote,
Of lust he read,
Small words on pages,
Larger words when said.

Soft hearts in the palm,
Of a man who wants more,
Weaves the beauty of want,
Such delicate lore.

Plays to the ear of woman,
That every caught his eye,
That then want his heart,
But find then one lie.

There is naught to be found,
Where once love did live,
A shadow of the life,
He once had to give,
But no longer,
No more,
Only lies and webs,
Delicate lore.

Labored calm, dust form into electrolyte
Dirt, scraping orbs of reason won’t obey
Violent winds take the umbrellas to flight  

Shooting down as a neurotic typewrite
Currents, crass! Making havoc throughout the day
Rain hides the distant mountains from our sight

Sounding the alarm, the air gives no respite
Swirls about such as Degas’s ballet
Violent winds take the umbrellas to flight

Planting in our minds the seeds of eyebright
Chaos and confusion are underway
Rain hides the distant mountains from our sight

Wearing iridescent labradorite
No shelter from the storm to our dismay
Violent winds take the umbrellas to flight

We beg you, take us away from ourselves
Mother Nature lay upon us your sway  
Violent winds take the umbrellas to flight
Rain hides the distant mountains from our sight