Manmade Constellations.
The smell of dust lies heavy in the air
like dirty boots in muddy waters.
The pull of the moon is grasping and clinging
as melodious songs drift soft and sweet.
Gently stirring
as lovers heave and sigh in the midnight heat
like pink blossoms on a silk tree.
What is embellished and what is left out
when in the woods we return to reason and faith.
This measure of life is a transcient game, when
an absurd proposition relatively considered reveals 
  the moist
   the wet
    the warm
     and almost indefinite ethereal imagination of you is appreciated by all.