Dusk is for
fireflies and
lime liminality:
night cushions
and enraptures,
no mock stars.
I gasp
then fold in
and in.
The plunge
is breathful and
receptive.
I lay there,
my back finally
unwrinkled,
and I didn’t
wince or yearn
from myself.
Bathed in breath
I listened:
I heard
a whale song,
a lament.
Mournful, sighing
for children
who have lost their way;
who supped on milk,
and forgot how
to dance in starlight
and kiss the Earth
with grubby, curious hands.
Dreamers, with indigo souls
as deep as the
murmurs of night,
distracted by
false light
absorbed and obsessed
with their own
shadows.
The owls are coming,
their eyes bright,
with wings
ready to
shift and glide
over the currents
of torment.
Clear-seeing,
rich is silence
cutting through
the chaos, illusion
and deceit,
to gentler
enigmatic shores.
This is so lovely 💫
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