At night, the owls come out

[thesilentline]

A blue drive tonight reveals
sweat beeding off the moon's face;
a shadow can hide- crescent,
though never truly darkened.
Thinking back on the worlds spin,
notions of regret arise
as simple words and phrases
rather than anything else.
A year ago, I would ask
what is the color of the
brain? Is it pink with white speks?
The world is spinning, sending
letters to creators. We,
as if turning to children-
we forget the path we took
home, and the moon whipes its brow.