For Leah Poem by Mark Williams

The small hill, astral farm included,
Encased by mountains of trees:
Longleaf, Silver Maple, Sawtooth, Magnolia.
Smothering undergrowth of white roses.
Strange, for roses to be under pine.
Suns slowly rising,
Bright, radiant, and infectious,
Scar no eyes.
Directly viewing without flinching.
The sky: Cloudless, peerless,
The colors, just enough to be interesting,
Never enough to mar the essentials.
Rusty boats,
Broken homes are heavenly here.

This is what even the greatest use of my gift,
Shows me when I look into your eyes, dear.

We are not one.
My eyes, decrepit and useless,
Force thoughts past.
Mind being shook,
Seeking escape, desperately.
Clouded by darkness,
Pitch blackness,
Devoid of light and brightness, here.
Black lines with darker insides,
Consuming others to form,
More empty, more obsolete vacancies,
In my mind.
Wait!
A flicker.
A hop.
A tiny hint of flame,
Accepted here.
Pulsing in and out, and around,
The flame gently replacing black,
With yellow, red, and green.

Thankfully, my very soul reaches out,
When you touch upon me, my dear.