Silver Hanging

Silver hanging on the vine
Casual wind to talk out loud.
Sleeping the silver moon lining  as a thin trace mark.
Curves of the world are blown to catch the beating light.
The sun sleeps and the wind slides through the moonstrike.
With upturned shoulders.
Light slides on dew, on bended knees.
Longing for the never known.
Hung from the shimmer and shine they stood.
Loveliness at night.
Breathless beneath a wistfull moon.
Someday you may contrive to stay.
The swift silence fall quite for got the mirth of the earth and sky.
I am not as old of noonday in years and tears.

– Wood

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