Moonlit valley of stardust,
Bleed me an empty birdsong.
Pages of ink and leaves of gold,
Tattered curtain swaying low
With dust in the midnight rain.
Flashes of discarded light and
Oil stains smothering rusted tin,
Deep in the woodland toiling away
As I card through beckoning hills.
Weary and still, drawn in the fog
Of morning doves in autumn harvest.
Vacancy dwelling, crooning dark and
Ever slow, burning and freezing these
Lips and skin— with lungs of heavy stone.
The reel in my mind is always blank,
Shallow like sunlight behind the clouds.
My windswept memory fades with the
Dunes of sand in this hourglass of time,
Fallen apart with grains that lay barren.
I breathe a garden of colorless flowers.
No sight nor sound escapes my tongue
As I tread softly past the hollow streets.
My senses only know of this very moment. Once
This time has passed, the sands cannot be recalled.
I will remember right now, then nothing at all.