A fledgling winter moon attains the sky
as distant as the dream for which I’d die
while bitter, barren winds begin to sigh;
aside from the encroachment of a chill
this point of purpose gleams within me still
like glimmers from uncharted stars that spill
upon a grounded scribe that longs to scry
(so maybe he can finally learn to fly)
how fledgling winter moons attain the sky.
Are You Reading Me?
4 comments:
I think we are all born to fly, some of us learn the secrets of how to, some don't. Keep Flying ;)
Never give up on the dream. :-) It may be just around the next corner.
I shiver at the winter's cold but I hope we never lose sight of our dreams ~
I'm trying, I'm trying, it's much easier with encouraging comments such as these, thanks!!
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