Candlelight

The dissonance is a swamp of graves used for growing crops.

It is a world where the region is a lost one on any map, as mind points over  purpose and iniquity, classes and what-haves.

I forget how sad classical piano can sound, even when it is whimsical...
  No telling, if the sadness is mine, or shared by the notes, stumbling over themselves in rush for perfect placement. So smooth.
So loosening.
And grips, they unfold.

My sleep escapes me late into another night.  Nerves twitch my canine and myself.
My mind, flutters, like butterfly wings, against a wind pouring in on draft
Riding, coasting, crashing,
How the little winged thing
Surfs into me.

Hours of the night, a true hourglass, as time itself postulates to the mind and an AM dark hour kept by candlelight.
      Seconds are lost in hours, veils lift, and the cat in me, stays awake to watch the night crawlers walk about.

Ey, it is a late hour indeed, where words are sifted through like ancestors drafting Magna Carta's. I stay awake by iPhone screen, and type on technology.

A new candlelight.
A new Quill

A New Time.

The Dissonance of Graves