⭐️
Their eyes were like the stars—
But stars are not blue,
Nor green,
Nor the deepest shade of brown.

Inside curtain of wind,
senses rise and focused mind
begins to hear.
Stream of song reverberates,
as music of breath balances heartbeat.
As vibrant twinkling stars lead thoughts
into pastures of lighted clouds.

Sleep eludes.
while words tumbled off finger tips,
and road to poem starts
its pulsating journey.
They circulate,
as if air particles are filled
with jargon untouched by human mind.

“Who speaks in yonder hall
of prism faceted mind?”
I ask at 3AM
when many sleep?

Is it Shakespeare's shadowed form,
as guide perched in realms unseen.
He echoes a “to write or not to write,
that be the question.”
He tickles senses
to awaken breath with,
“he who writes harbors gold.”

Or  could it be Hemingway
who invites self to dance
amid sprinkle seedlings of a vision
to paint on a rainy night.

Perhaps it’s Poe a grand puppeteer of words,
who once lived in human form.
A talented soul in matrex of universe
who wishes to share
with transfusion to tweak my prose
with Ravens song.    

Maybe its an alien who stops a while
in earths space
to reveal message for those
craving wisdom half awake.
A message to move as pioneer
everyday celebration
of ones sacred self.

Inside stage of moment
even the bird sleeps,
and crickets hibernate on winter night.

Inside the solitude of
gentle sparks of creative energies
fingers dance.
They march on
tapping into holding tank
of language
meant to deposit on page.

Alas time moves on,
as daybreak hints to arrive
and moon slowly ascends
biding farewell.

As undercurrents of sound
shift and writer guides ceases to feed
with their divine song.

As I bid thee fine reader good day,
and my cavorting fingers rest
making way for self to return to sleep pastures.

Till we meet again
parting is such sweet sorry.