Last Words of a Poetaholic

40

The moon sets, like an anchor
Of the Stars, a tide of white silk
Floating down to the Oceans
A tree by our house waves
In the milky light of Tonight

Reaching as far as the little boat
In my dream, I am the river
Of light coming down as a bird
From the mountains, swift as
Time, the moss covering my youth

These rustic windows look out
On to flowers by the shore
Spring never needs to hide behind the sun
Steep cliffs block the Moon
From my view, hermit-clouds

I envy you Nature, so masterful
I am only a guest in your blooms
Not even the path that leads me
Up to daybreak will remember me.

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