How could my senses ever dare deny the enticing invitation of those playing by night rules?
  
Silky and soothing psalms are their lone admittance fee. 

But, it’s mere pocket change for any opportunity presented to visit their vast and veiled abyss. 
The kind of dark Louis Armstrong sang of, possessed me to roam the streets.

I possess nor desire any destination on the eve hours of June but only to peer into the sky’s racing fluff.  
My feet’s lives are branded “grounded,” but this view grants me levitation. 

The Southeast flows to great lengths to greet me first.  
What a humid howl it issues for initial notice.  
A gale so ghostly chills not but, indeed, makes me long for a wave to crest. 
If I were pounds lighter, I’d be a feather, flung to glory. 

Aerial and acrobatic norms are shattered.
Nocturnal beast barrel through the barrage of bluster beauty.
Wielding the wind masterfully, their maneuver mind boggles.
I envy supersonic vision.  

The trees, next in secession, flutter a leafy hymn.  
Only the house light’s pail presence exposes their patter-ing performance. 
How unison and, yet, chaotic is their melody? 
They’re required not to bless my ears but, still, saw pity. 

Just then, the stellar ballroom is calling for cosmic steps.
My definition of a sparking tango is this blazing blessing:
incineration infinitely condensed for my viewing convenience. 
Compare the twinkle’s global view to anything else, and your wonder of it would surely be stunted. 
Reds, blues, whites and yellows can seem at arm’s length, but their presence is one only our psyches can venture to.

Still, while they’re sacred in their own right, I’m more intrigued by a more intimate kind of shine. 
Never must one let their memory falter in this fact:
What is nearest to us affects us most.
Her celestial glow earned designation to tug the hearts of my ancestors and the oceans alike. 
Her nuclear spotlight never ignores her steps.
 
Only men with no souls withhold thanks for you—nature’s free firework. 
My lunar love was the site of the silk shrouds running past your face, as you illuminated their every fiber—their every strand.  They caress cratered cheeks, I may never touch. 
Beethoven’s bones bathe in the light, which you so generously ration.
And, in this evening, the brilliant ball has sparked his revival. 

From the Soul,

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