The stars and I tend to keep to ourselves, we've seen our share of misery, but that's okay by me, I enjoy the solitude. Only the moon can tell my secrets, she rises from the illumination of unjust.
My heart beats to an absurd rythym and once in a while the trees join in, swaying like they're trying to paint the clouds. Restless, let them reel, let them free me from the perplexities of doubt where I am vanity's hostage.
I left my past in a bed of moss and wild rose hips about twenty miles north of here, and the mountain's broad shoulders are guardians to my rebel riffs. Anguish stains my flesh, what I once thought beautiful is nothing more than a camouflaged graveyard where my convictions went to die.
Root-bound, I look to the eastern horizon of a sable-vested night. I envy the stars as they rise out of chaos and harmonize in a chorus of Sibelius violins, a valse triste for desperate lovers.
The way we inspire, how you call me beautiful, a nameless and deeply felt thing. In my mind, it is you who are beautiful.
Together we are more than apart.
(Artwork: Marianne Rosenstiehl)