poem

The day was dying
red came from down the west
the sweet drought of infants
sighing into twilight
You could see the blue veins
in their eyes the lines across the sky
clouds rushing through the air
picking up light casting it off through the rain
Colors sprinkled across the cornfield
yellow, brown, red, and golden
dusk settled
breezes played through the grass
and were gone
silence quiet, waiting
A single voice high in the sky
piercing dark silence
a diamond sparkles on the horizon
weaving patterns across the sky
heroes, kings, horses, and serpens
Tales found by those of old
hidden in the stars
when their days drew close
and stories under these stars they told...

And here am I dreaming