Don't Shoot Down The Moon, George Poem by Leah Ayliffe

White flowers in my vision,
Rose clay fumes and summer whispering behind still cool air.
The night serves up dreams from under the subconscious of nearly forgotten things. They were there.
It's a temperamental swing,
like the ocean tides,
and one foot out of line alters the balance of the outcome.
Where in the darkness did she go?
To wake her, disturb her peace of being free - who do you think you are? Do you know whose grave you're dealing with? An echo calls out in warning not to turn around. Don't go back there, let the footstep disappear.

Shooting down the Moon - what a cruel thing to do George, even if it is for love. Can you keep safe anything that's in this world we created with our own minds?

Tangerine juice over dry skin.
A vision of greenery and flowered vines growing around our bodies:
We are a garden.
I can taste the day
and see the world revolving around the dark universe with a burning fire far beyond the sky limit:
The sun.
And here we call this ours, so close to home.

Who are we? Tingly sensations under the skin to the tips of my toes. The running blue blood rushing to make life known.
With the curtains wide open,
and no fear of the eyes that wander in,
I danced in no clothes for an eternity where I found myself in Eden.
I brushed my hair on the floor for a century after,
singing sweet nothings to the girl in the mirror, like, "did you know you're a dream? "