As orchards and orchids
once were seeds
say this small prayer for me,
that love isn't what
we've been made to believe
in an artist's scene
but rather these rich
shadows crossed in candle
light, made with no
electricity, just a flame
to me above these
tragic seas that reach
to us as I write.

That we lie in this world
softly unfurled like dreams,
that when we stand we must also
learn to fight with
the appearance of things
nobody sees
but our angle of sight,
the way it observes moonlight
on leaves while we quietly breathe
on the hill they call the night.

We have lost our reprieve,
and gained in disease,
have drank drops too sweet
for life.

There are those with ease
who lead one to believe
that love is a forgotten rite
as the shadows it seems
are too soft to leave out
of the feel of our dreams
out of the prejudice of our sight.

All i ask is that you speak and you sing
because of the simplest things that make
one believe,
that allow you to breathe in order to be
the gold locked in your candlelight.