The Light I Used to Write

With abetting sleep,

Inconsistency in the chanting mind,

The moon dares try to comfort me,

Whenever I dreamt,

I always awoke,

And tonight I had dreamed of the future,

And so I opened up my eyes,

To a dark room with an open window,

And across from the pane a closed door,

Before the window,

My back to the door,

I looked to the moon who lit the clouds,

With a wished silence,

And inflammation of every sound,

The moon begins to speak to me,

Crawling over only slightly,

Tree in the sky and fingers of the moon,

Within a wavering silhouette,

Ensnared there a plastic bag,

Contents unseen and unknown,

It wouldn't have been noticed if it weren't for the wind,

From the light I used to write,

I almost saw the color,

Maybe even, had the clouds not shredded the moon,

With longer phrases,

And imperfection in the canting mind,

The moon no longer speaks to me,

It allows me one last glance,

Pupil of a foggy eye,

And I know to put my pencil back in its place,

And finish my writing in the back of my mind.