Poetry (words)

Emerald dreams. 

Could I be this lucky, this drop of life beneath the darkest pinhole sky. Look up and tell me of wealth, breathe in and expel the myths of fortunate kings. This capture and keep mentality how it drowns the bravest voice. 

This moment will pass too soon, but it lives long enough to be painted by this novice hand. How could I not be moved. Amongst this emerald dream I am the curious being, the outsider looking in. 

From a book of lines I captured time in the shade of morning’s forgiving light as dandelion clocks took flight. I planted thoughts beneath the ground and gave them room to exhale, that they might grow when I move on. 
What more could I possibly ask for,  here where the last blossoms fall like wishes from the lips of time. Short lived but irreplaceable, like a night in the woods. 


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