Silhouettes frame insomniac thoughts dancing across the moonlit ceiling,

No regrets is a name we give to romantic loss when its too raw to discuss the real thing,

Lips quiver in rapid meditation while eyes dart to the foreground from the mind,

Taking sips to deliver us  from the well of memories we can’t seem to leave behind.

The prints on my fingers linger over the keys while steeped in thought,

I may have a tenacious spirit, and an iron will, but it isn’t wrought.

If one isn’t smitten with what is written, perhaps some other will see its worth,

Else its worth nothing, and the first one was right, as this could be our last night on earth.

Paddle around the bend in the river, discover what lurks there which was hidden,

Excel beyond the limitations the critics have placed, and face the world that is forbidden.

We were meant for more than most of what meets our eyes and ears,

Time waits for no one, heals some wounds, plodding forth in relentless years.

My palm on the glass feels the warmth of the sun, and projects it within to my heart,

My heart feels the warmth of reconciliation, and cannot help but call it art