• The moon is my compass...
    From which I draw an imaginary map through my dreams and back to your shadow because I can only half make out your face
    And I'm willing to walk over mountains of typical cliche poetry and nights of writer's block when the words just slip out of my grasp
    Like silver irredescent strings of starlight
    Just to assure myself you're really there.

    I've got scratches on my hand
    From the times when my pen has squwked like a tempremental crow and bitten me
    So hard I'm woken up by the pain
    Because we all need to be told we're fools once in a while

    But if I can let a full winter moon
    Mystify me as I lose myself writing about the warmth you showed me
    Especially when I make a blanket for myself out of the frosty air
    I wouldn't mind calling myself...
    Fool.