BEYOND

the universe stands, shouldering the mass, overlooking the surrounding named, unnamed lights, directing motion with a terrifying force as planets drift into deepest orbits, past or near day and night, untouched by seasons, expanding beyond the dreams where no one will ever go

ENTER THE GHOSTS

sleep, the back half of what was, leftovers from today, ghosts of the past stepping through an open door without resistance as the sand underneath changes to water, drowning your breath or pushing you from a rooftop sparing your impact, your death, until repeated another night

BIRTHDAY CANDLES

silent wishes inside whispers, unopened presents frosting smiles, festive hats pointing to heaven, where eyes reflect the soul as a chorus of support welcomes all into the center where voices entertain with gifts in story

A BAG OF SALVATION

words on stone as angels pass over where clouds hold tight the soul of belief as winds push back and then forward to the promise at the highest point where air is fresh like cool water filling your spaces washing onto your shoreline the best of all parts

ALMOST

on the other side of time, the area between is crowded with shadows, broken promises and the right to be understood as changes occur like the flow of clouds, nameless, but important, almost enough to break into the blues like reliving the history of each year, after the first breath of morning as day passes … More ALMOST

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SOFTLT ABOVE

the last clouds of day are rooms over the ocean, curtains of moisture reabsorbed, exposing a a carpet of stars, glistening sweetness nourished by angels as we trespass beneath heaven

INSIDE VOICE

the gray of shadow light bending, fragments of words like wrought iron angel wings kneeling within a drizzle of mist surrounding trees shed of leaves, desperate against seasons strength, fail to retain the youth of spring and summers shade the moon rises strong, casting a glance over night

CROSSING THE LINE

there’s another place a city road leading to the edge where red roses color a meadow and a forest line provides a crooked path, like an open door, unseen, but known to wanderers, owning the sense of the line crossed over, where shadows are honored like myself to have been there once

EMPTY STOMACH

turn arounds where roads end like poor decisions and empty pockets where dreams the size of mountains fall from the sky melting into an ocean under a moon where new roads fail to create change from unaccepting disapproving eyes while repressing sadness and an empty stomach