The golden tree offers hope,
and the night field welcomes the sleepless.
if we acknowledge the forest floor,
we will find our future path
and gold and silver
and beauty in our artificial lights.
in the details of the shadows,
we are blinded by the glares.
at the perfect angles, if we look just right
we can wonder
if balance should be the goal,
and if we should take the stairs one leg
and one stumble at a time.
If we sway with the gusts,
if we lay on our fronts,
if we feel the world around us,
its texture, its depth, its tactile reverence
and blur our ignorance of touch
out of reality
the details disappear
illuminate
the subjects submit
and pose for the moment
their value is recognized
their simplicity,
their essence
emerge,
envelop,
captivate,
trance,
in awe
of this evidence
can you imagine?

Are you not beautiful until someone tells you?
Are you not worth every chance of focus?

Attempt effortless existence,
Release your awe
fall where you lay
fall asleep as you blink.
Goodnight, all everlasting.

Little Luna
sitting in the sky
won’t you come down
and play with me?

Little Luna
sitting in the sky
aren’t you lonesome
beautifying the darkness?

Little Luna
sitting in the sky
how can I reach you
and become one with your serene hue?

I want to be more than
a glowing sphere
I want to light the world on fire
and watch it char to ash

I want to shed my light
on false hopes
and broken promises
disguised by Sol’s cloak

I want to betray Gaia
and steal Sol’s chariot
watching the trees absorb my rays
just for one day

Little Luna
sitting in the sky
won’t you come down
and tell me you love me?

When i was younger
and foolish
i used to believe that we would one day be together
years later
i now realize
what i should have then
wasted my time wanting
dreaming
believing
and even tho this may be true
i am not ready to let go
of what i want
the person who took my breathe at first sight
made my heart fly out of my chest with the first word spoken.
it may be a waste
and is childish
but i keep wishing
dreaming
believing
wanting
that touch that never did happen

My day of labor,
Spent ill at ease,
Is drawing to a close.
My sleeping neighbor,
The winter freeze,
Has begun to lift his nose.

The last dregs of sunlight
Seep weakly from the sky.
"Come comfort us," they seem to call,

"As we descend to die."

"How terribly conceited,"
I in my rest did say.
An old man grant the setting sun
The cosmic right of way?

My day of errand
Spent but to give
Amongst the earth and sod,
Draws not a fair end.
For I must live
To see the death of god.