The tapping of silence (( {echoes} )) throughout.
I can hear it all the time.
I listen for it--nothing.
Forever, it is sought after
And caught daily, hourly, and each second.
Bam, bam, bam...
The hammering of slumber beats at the door. It is not welcome. It exists only to weaken as the opaque blanket is slyly slid across the soon-to-be-once-sunlight sky.
A shepherd enters the pasture of starlets orchestrating wishes and hopes and dreams in the period of natural hiding known each night. She also bears the bronze bag of sand used to send the susceptible ones to sleep
A shepherd enters the pasture of starlets orchestrating wishes and hopes and dreams in the period of natural hiding known each night. She also bears the bronze bag of sand used to send the susceptible ones to sleep
Where she sends them to their death, fantasies, dreams, hopes, disappointments, pasts, futures, nightmares, and fears.
Surprisingly, she has limited control over where you go after the sand weighs your eyelids down like gravity draws us to the earth and her starlets in the places, fastening down a secure job that will never be accepting applications.
Who is she?
She is the moon--the one watching and observing the outside metamorphosis of our rotating sphere, of us, of our concious and subconcious worlds.
Who is she?
She is the moon--the one watching and observing the outside metamorphosis of our rotating sphere, of us, of our concious and subconcious worlds.
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