Mat for dreams
The littlest of treads on the night carpet,
with breaths for fur.
Tonight, it is no longer as silent as it used to be
nor lonely, nor sad.
Just being as it is:
the long dusk that will turn into a dusty dawn
like every single seeping sleeping sweep across the sky.
Ah! What marvelous tapestry.
Lined with clouds that are silver from the moon
or perhaps it is just the terrestial illumination.
Can you see how it changes colour from the dark obsidian
into white chaste tassles that tag "the ever changing rug"?
Wring my night, like wet woven sponge.
I will only and always ask for rain.
with breaths for fur.
Tonight, it is no longer as silent as it used to be
nor lonely, nor sad.
Just being as it is:
the long dusk that will turn into a dusty dawn
like every single seeping sleeping sweep across the sky.
Ah! What marvelous tapestry.
Lined with clouds that are silver from the moon
or perhaps it is just the terrestial illumination.
Can you see how it changes colour from the dark obsidian
into white chaste tassles that tag "the ever changing rug"?
Wring my night, like wet woven sponge.
I will only and always ask for rain.