Occasionally

My delight is not found in the worth while.

That does not make up my bliss. Occasionally I find the wind curious, the dark inevitable but settling.

I lay and dream of the clouds, the moon, the galaxies beyond and wonder why can I not see them. Am I not beyond?

If I reach my hand far at the sun am I not there?

There is nothing like the hour before dusk. The sky dim and trees sway just.

It is the end. It is over. It is finished. Peace.

But the hours short lived when the morning light sneaks onto my innocent complexion.

Now I know it is truly over. It is finished. Restart.

 

Reviews

[Emily B]

You have your own style. Honest and forthright. And it doesn't rhyme. Really enjoyed reading this.