[about life, the thought of being buried alive]

What of the moment?   darkness. 
What if it falls too soon?
What of this lingering darkness, brooding, waning, in the tides of crescent moon.

What of the hunger, thirst I have for you, what of the droplets of the early morning dew?

What of the brown leaves still laying scattered on the ground, 
what of the stars and moons i've searched and had not found, 
what of the tides, of oceans deep and blue?
What of the love, love I feel for you. 

All deep, all shallow, all displayed in light and in the sun that shines despite the darkness of the night,
And of the sounds that we hear when the day begins to swell, all rests within the heart, within the depths of the internal well


The trees they feel when morning raises sap that dreamed away cool colours in the dark  of night,
and plants replenish in the morning dew, the song is sang, the song I sing to you


epheme