Three AM

You get old

And you think you're 

Not beautiful 

Anymore 

And you look outside

And you see ages of living 

And constancy

And the trees bloom such

An architecture

And the land rolls its

Sublime contours

And then you begin

To instruct yourself in 

A miasma of light 

And dust and mist 

It floods your heart

Into seeing 

Beyond sinew and pulse

Into the grace of infinite

Looking out my bedroom window

As I try to calm myself 

I see, yes, there is always 

Moon in some part of the sky

And the map of the great dome

Is there for the taking

And no point at all to be old.

In this life, it does not matter.

I am that moon

That sun. 

Those stars. 

That sky.

We are.

We were.

We always will be

Until none of this is 

Anymore.