Sometimes I think I am psychotic
and possibly I am.
The ground is breathing,
skies are shimmering
with love for the sun.
There is nothing that is plain,
that is alive.
The sea is being swooned
by it's lover: the moon;
Tumbling over it self
and dancing with the ships,
though the sailors don't appreciate.
I wonder if they see what I see.
They never mention
how the colors of the leaves
make them feel
in this new autumn.
They don't excite when it rains;
dripping droplets down glass
as I always do.
I'm tired and I want to lay on grass
without dew soaking through my clothes.
The smell of dying leaves
make me feel alive;
as real as the second I first saw his eyes;
My first love, and my second,
the Earth during autumn.
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