An Ode to Self at Night

I lick the stars off my plate
while the candles whisper
to shadows,their newborn,
the stories of injured walls
and windows painted with
emotions of eternity,
the hyms of innocent lambs.

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The Handwritten Painting

The window displays an unfinished painting
of the sun-tanned sky.
The unpolished crescent smeared at the edges
by the dampened breath of the tired sky on which the birds danced with the amber tendrils throughout the day, the aubade chirps skylarking with hustling footsteps on concrete roads.
The polka dots spurting out of the onyx colored fabric with the artist’s exuberance, the petal floating in the irises of hand held love finger crossed hope innocent prayer passionate contemplation bedtime story.

The voice of the grandfather clock saunters in through darkness, adding a new brushstroke with every tongue click,
while I watch the painting evolve, slowly, with every heartbeat.