These storms pound, over and over
the wind screams, the sea moans,
Days of blue sky,
a thousand ships sailing into the mists of time?
And then, if whispers, “please.”
But the moon chants from above
this is could, not always, or never,
they do not see or listen–
we dream of light and beauty. . .
and all is.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.