Night Time

The mosquitoes come out when the humans go in. When humidity is rampant and the air's just too thick. I might call it an annoyance, because breathing is obscured. Yet those other little monsters seem to cherish it full force. It is not my or your making that variety is key. What is good for you is unspeakable to me. And the creative winds of freedom keep on rolling in and through. And there isn't a beginning to any thing or me or you. Just to stand and feel the magic of a night's still and rich life. As the man on stage is singing to his most loved guitar. Many things today appeared in a flash of fallen star. Disharmoniously perfect, though they really fool the mind. I don't know where it's all going, not these words, not this life. Yet I do enjoy the vastness and the abyss of the now. And the pen, it keeps on moving, as the clock has stuck thirteen. It's the eighth day that's awaiting to be seen and broken in. And the man has stopped creating, and the stars are shining bright. And the words have changed location, from the bedroom to the light. I will say good bye to fury that has burned a hole so deep. It is time to change the story, because all of it's a dream. 



And I'd rather be.....