Lunasong365

It was only a few years ago that You and I would spend our evenings at The bar on the corner Your ma was real sick so you Spent most your free time with her Of course I understood But in the night the stars pop out. You up there on stage And me at the back table writing lyrics and poetry Of course it was about you It was always about you. During break you’d come over and sit with me “Huh,” you'd say, reading my words. “That’s good. That’s real good.” But it was never as good as yours. There’d never been any doubt that you Were this firework shell just waiting for The spark to soar into the at

Justice doesn't bring peace. Justice attempts to seek retribution To make things right but it has already happened and can't be undone. How can I be made whole again with this hole in my heart? How can I find peace when a piece of me is missing?

It's a good thing that my skin Adjusts to fit the shape I'm in. Because my body's always changing; Certain parts are re-arranging. If it hadn't kept its fit I would long ago have split.

I’m merely alive Nothing left but breath and blood Soon, these too, shall pass

I walk the labyrinth To find safety within walls Security in Its predictable pattern And solitude in The narrowness of its path.

Oh lyre, you could never match The gentle notes of leafy twigs That quiver in the breeze, The murmuring of waves as they caress the shore, Or the cooing of the mourning doves At play along the forest edge. If only you could sound with but a breath! Like a flute devised from river reeds That sings of the secrets of Heaven— Of Spirit that soars on purity of thought, Of Love that speaks without a word, But through the gaze of soul to soul. But your sweet voice creates harmony Through my gentle caress, as I long to touch The beautiful soul of my beloved. My reveries move my yearning heart As the wind moves the pliant clouds To places the

Each lacy flower head that spills its seed Each fallen leaf that lays upon the moss Each flying bird whose absence stills the sky Each tiny insect silenced by the frost The stoic trees stand naked in the wood Their gold and bronze dissolved to bitter rust Their bare bones rattle in the chilling breeze Their outlines stark against the creeping dusk The furrowed field lies pillaged in the starlight The shadows deep in ruts and broken grasses The sky itself breathes out in crystal healing And whispers peace to all who need forgiveness In dying, all that live return to earth In earth, all those that die will live again

Why should the turning of a page signal a change? It's still the same book.