Before The Dreamer Sleeps

My mind has been bewitched by the ancient moon that watches down through the cloudy heavens. Her face, half lit with her own illumination, with great beauty and that enchanting calling which allows her to break through the heavy burden of the sky.
If you can only grasp the understanding, then you shall tame the wicked magic of a seed. How much a life that seed possess, it shares the knowledge of prediction, but still the chance is yours for taking, to give back the wonders of a life.
No words can say for sure what lingers behind the artist’s eyes, nor the assumption held the key to unlock the secrets between the poet’s lines. Instead it’s cruel to wonder, to find your idea of the words spoken through the ink. But no one can know for sure until the teller speaks with muted tongue.
But here I am, as us will be, a longing dreamer. One who can, as others have, begun the night’s descending. So much a night provides, a blind witness allowing freedom. To run around, be free, and never to be found! Alas, the dawn will break and breathe away the secret. But still, the youth of this darkened hour stands, and there’s quite more to discover. To wait until the sound of day is depended and encore dwells in promise- it is then I hear the ringing silence fade and the melody soon follows.
An orchestra of shattered sounds brings noise to pure new meaning. A crisp, a chirp! Such curious and lovely music. No personnel, just me a solo witness, to see and applause the nature. Which was ignored, was always there, and now was heard, can listen.
A heart beat of a thousand words, can splatter in an instant. In which it can describe, the whisper of a rain drop.
What’s this? The pale faced moon having no notice? No rain, nor due, then can it be a tear drop? The salty essence being true portrays a different question. Who in this empty audience, allowed such marvel happen?
This true, my guilty fault I swear, I mean no harm to yonder- but this beauty in your melody has charm, I never had imagined. And that is when; I saw the ghosts, appear and sway but further. So far, my hand can never touch, but who can reach what never was, and lives to tell the story?
And yet how could I never know beyond the chaos of the daylight’s clock, which tells the busy houses, that stars will shine to light the path to other ghostly prowlers. Those that seek no trouble, no harm whichever hour. Those that live beneath our feet and practice music when ceased our many motions.
So as I sat there in the midst of sound and candle glowing safety, I had the gift to forget sleep, at least for one more hour. To look up high at long dead stars, which share their wisdom through the light, although awake in sullen darkness. So how can we not yet presume they’re ghosts and let the logic dwindle. Instead at last we’ll fully see the beauty of an unawake world, behind the dusk and that which follows dawn break.

by Victoria Long

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