The sky is blue like my eyes, my pupils are full of surprise. With these two eyes I have to see with.
I see the angel's light, intensely bright with white light. Pure as driven snow, laying on the ground where flowers in bloom grow. Under the shadow of the milky moon that looks down upon me.
I rise then fall, as small creatures scurry and crawl, and hide in fields of grass so green, as they lay beneath the earth unseen.
Dancing nymphs in the flower bed, parade to celebrate the passing of the dead; while lady birds become entangled in spider's webs, I watch them cocooned inside silken thread. The creeping vine grips tight with small buds of succulent white, that seep sweet honey.
In this mystical place the tombstones of former sailors laid to rest, stand as a dark testament to the riggers of time, with names etched in stone in memory of lost souls unknown. Beyond the midnight garden, a face has no place in a world with out meaning. Where the sky is always blue, and the grass is four shades of green, and the dead have no feeling.
It is a place where no sun glows in a timeless passage that leads to some where, but where, who knows? Entangled with choking weeds and trees that scatter seeds, from which a world of natural beauty shall be born.
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