Man is that which is terrorized by starlight for whom spirits are owls in the morning rain whose love is self pity turned outwards and what still gives shine in a bygone age
First. A chance occurrence, a rift
in the seems, an ephemeral movement
but nonetheless real
how can it be? this coming together
after everything
the most graceful moment
that ever was seen. but for
the shortest of whiles. the lights
and colors produced
by rubbing your eyes.
Then. In all the world
recognition ignites
each passer by
set aflame by words
they begin align
like celestial bodies
a limerence
for linearity
for him who lies
down and sleeps
to an imposingly deep
and colorful sound.
Slowly they arise
the creatures of the day
the wistful and the leaving
the lying down and dreaming
the forever waking up, the breathing
artistry astray;
stretchers in the rain
these messengers of faith
they are guests of the morning
whom by extension of their stay
do not comprehend
why the light rearranges
and betrays them for their niceness,
their offerings,
the thank you's
like a wanderer's
one justified to lay
yet by virtue tries to wake
as you ask him for his voice
he will reach towards the sky
his moans
vacate the silent while
before the yawn
which is his name.
Man is that which is terrorized by starlight for whom spirits are owls in the morning rain whose love is self pity turned outwards and what still gives shine in a bygone age