.;.;.;.;. .;.;.;. ..;.;.;. .;;.;.;. .;..;;. ..;;.. .;.; .;.;. .;.;.;.;. ..;.;.;.;.;. ..;.;.;.; ..;.;.; ..;.;.;.;.;. ..;;.. Night falls like the ink in my pen spreading in a smooth flow across parts of a snow white world spreading less definitions while softening the hard edges of each page of life
Nature is a poet it cloaks the weary with dark blankets stilling their thoughts with whispered words of promise for tommorrow so that rest is found in between the lines of rush hour traffic presidential lies unemployment centers voting booths airport checkpoints and drunks in cheap bars looking for a quickie
It hides a dying summer with multi-colored expressions shaken from its many limbs and then edits the brown and dried husks of what perished with clean white sheets of crystal sparkles scripted to refract the light and cast reflections for all
I find solace in it's methods as it shakes dangling participles from the heavens and smothers the drab
I find dreams in it's inky coverage of all that I am weary of while still allowing glimmers of light to set periods of hope above a sleeping earth
It's 11:20 and I am collaborating with nature at work till my eyes flutter shut and wander the dreamy passages it has granted us all.