Timothy J. Burgess
I am myself no more
While waltzing the starlit pores of the maimed moor,
Miming the maestro's virtuosity
While leaning lightly on the moon's magnificent score.
Soft billows of wind caress the pillars of men,
We digress and discuss no longer where or when.
As we stroll through the struggling abyss of plains and polarities
We find peace in our own disparities.
The bones of night bare themselves in pale white