Bathed in moonlight's gentle caress,
Lost in the labyrinth, a maze of distress,
On life's twisted path, I falter,
Each step, a burden on my silent altar.

The cold breeze whispers secrets, "Shiver," it sighs,
Heavy limbs trudge through night's dark disguise,
Shadows cling with sorrow's icy embrace,
Ensnaring my spirit in this barren space.

In the distance, a flickering beacon I glimpse,
Its ethereal glow, a whisper urging me to wince.
Guided by its glow, a wary step I take,
Closer, my fears recede with each move I make.

A solitary firefly, sparking the garden of the night,
With twinkling radiance, it invites me to take flight,
Dancing through foliage, leading with its luminous dance,
Towards a hopeful morrow, where fears trance.

Through winding tunnels, where shadows twirl,
Deep within the cave, where mysteries swirl,
An exit blooms with lights so bright,
A golden aura, guiding to realms unseen in light.

To the exit, I find myself, enchanted with delight,
Amidst myriad fireflies, painting the dim night,
They sing with their soft luminescence, a celestial melody,
I join their harmony, feeling my spirit soar free.

In the garden of fireflies, where dreams softly trace,
A promised visit, seeking its own space.
Their ethereal dance inspires, a vow to keep,
To return to my garden, where wishes deeply sleep.

I extend my hand, they swarm, aglow on my palm,
A vow affirmed, in their tranquil charm,
Easing burdens, lifting weary limbs,
As we voyage towards dreams' uncharted whims.

Taking humanoid form, they whisper tenderly,
"Meet us again in your garden, where dreams roam free, endlessly,
Where wishes unfurl, and dreams bestow,
Together, we'll bathe it in our gentle glow."
In your garden of dreams.

The alarm softly stirs me from sleep's gentle hold,
Yet its beauty lingers, a beacon of hope untold.
Today feels different, as I rise from my bed,
With newfound friends and dreams ahead.

Turn the page clockwise,
a full one-eighty degrees. 
 
Any further and you’ll lose perspective.  
Any less and you’ll slip back.  

That’s not irretrievable,
and you’ll probably
have an opportunity to re-cover.
You might re-live and re-peat,
but if you make it a habit,
you’ll get stuck in a loop
never breaking out of the prologue.

Stick to the clockwise-one-eighty approach
and you’ll myth like a Makar.
You’ll story, fable and yarn.
You’ll chronicle and tale.
You’ll saga.  

That is what we call a true page turner.

I have been writing a story
but don’t know how it ends

It has 20 pages of nonsense
and it could use some help

You might not like it so far
I haven’t gotten to the good part yet

But if you stick around you
may find yourself within those pages

And our story might be
the greatest

She wakes up every morning
with a frown on her face
as he stumbles from his bed
and into a chair that
he will never get out of-
there is tension in the air
as she downs another
exclaiming, "bottoms up"
when it makes her glass world
shatter
at the rise of a cup

All he can do is watch the pieces
as they become pronounced
while the shift of retreating cats
induces a pitter-patter
and more pictures fade out;
the happy memories
now stained
from her cigarette smoke
to ensure they'll die together,
yet somehow alone

He is cursed with a disease
that has rendered him pitiful
but alcohol doesn't care,
she drinks another swig,
becoming more cyclical
and deems the man’s hindrance
as sinful

Stuttering, he can't escape
a liquid she's drowned him with
by pouring it into her own veins-
maybe it's better this way,
to watch the walls as they cave in

What else can he do
as he slowly degrades
from Parkinson's?

I'm cursed with a terrible mindset
I forget all the good of this world
There's evil afoot, and I know of such
but of love am I rarely reminded.

I long for the abstracted season,
when the world's undone at the seams.
When wild gods come knocking, the cradle stops rocking
and insolence bows down to reason.

I yearn for the coming of laughter.
For the chill wind to tell me the tune.
The song still resounding thereafter,
as we walk past the relics and runes.

I show them the gift of the rainstorm.
But few would sit and see.
The Otherland is all around.
But no one's got the key.

A muse to darkness, candle that frays,
the bud of the rose plant
sullies the brave.

A kiss under veil, decorum deceit,
the seed has been planted
and curdles beneath.

Like vines they entangle
the voice of the saint
thy soul they shall strangle
and crush, a
restraint,
chokes
the wind
of

breath comes back for a moment,
the wind howls wild for it has been defiled,
the fiend persists with ashen words
but howls protect from unholy verse.

Your wildest dream, hearts desire.
these things you've seen inside my fire.

You walked away and yet
she stands before you
her words still trickle in,
and then they floor you.