by Mike M.
Nocturne
Crust covered, creaky feet, marching on twigs.
I gaze at the moon. Owls cry, none are seen.
Some stay ‘round the fire. Logs snap and scream.
I recall home, only the snout of pigs.
Seated, silent. All falls off in one glance.
Orion ambulates above. What can
I do with this life? Not one thing. What plan
Does man carry through infinite expanse?
Children joyfully toss ‘round the divine.
I join them knowing all the rules. Before
One mote of dust is the rose scent divine.
Rest now, your work boots have fallen apart.
You are never without. There is no lack.
Make it a comedy, make it your art.
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