The dry leaves a whisper
in the cool night air .
The future lurking
face to face with the moon .
He drank in her sigh .
Inhaled .
This night must last till
there is no tomorrow.
No thorns .
No tears .
Feeling a pleasant stir
darkness faded and
slipped into perspective.
Ocean dancers dream
the music of the sands .
The young optimistic
the old find acceptance,
In dreams that have
gathered dust .
Spritually bloodied and beaten .
The morning was chaos
in a minor key .
In the waiting air of
the storms eye .
The old growth forest
waded into the shallows .
As the wind moaned
like a salty cello .
The flag of her life
was set at half mast .
Following a path
of fire .
Of ice .
Listening to to the song
of the angels.
Carried on ancient
winds of sorrow ,
she knew all the secret places
between right and wrong .
The angels song was
one of tears .
That lightly pushed the waves
over the thorns .
As he ran back
from the morning.
Fighting the odds of the elements
she was as indegenous as the
roots upheaved from a withered oak .
A wave of desolate fury
inside a sea of wrongfulness
or rightousness .
This journey is not over .