I squeak open the rusty door
and moist morning air comes pouring in
just like so many times before.
Time another day begins,

A couple steps onto the weathered deck
and grey squirrels start to bark at me.
I shrug my shoulders and stiff neck
in the shadow of a huge oak tree.

I blink and a deer simply appears.
It stops, stomps feet and stares at me
then drops it head without a care.
He walks away ignoring me.

Upon the Land of Imagery I land, Oh,
In search of endless mystery.
I pick its ripening fruits, to grow
With its seeds the poetry tree.

I've toured around for years its highs
For there's more ... a poets call,
Some fruits delight the tired eyes,
Some sing, some drawl and squall.

I've seen the cream, sour and sweet;
They trigger up tremendous arts.
Some soft and silky, they gently treat,
While others hard as stony hearts.

On Imagery Land go find me,
Painting pieces of poetry.

Punching away shadows, shapes
Back were they came from, from the street
Lights smothering the Inky abyss and pockets
Above the silk black blanket
A sinister grin from a ghostly moon
that changed its shape
from a horn to a circular glow

Punching away shadows, shapes.
Back where they came from, from the gritty street
Lights smothering the pockets of odor with glare
Above the black, silk blanket
A sinister grin from the ghostly moon
that changed its shape
from a horn to a circular glow

The night is solid black,
there is but one star out,
the moon a thin sliver.

And a sudden fear strikes me,
Which can happen if lost
in the middle of a black forest,

where you could not see the trees,
with barely enough light to see
beyond your outstretched arm.

So, we huddle closely together,
our souls burning like a light tower
against this, scary, too silent night.

We hold our vigil, share our heat,
the way fires can combine as one,
We await the saving light of day.