Twenty-second hour, 

Sonance of wakeful woodland from far east. 

Concrete, feeling rugged, yet plush under my toes. 

It feels as though all of earth is docile and serene. 

As the only movement that I truly note, 

Is my midriff, ascending and cascading, 

She is controlling my breath. 

I view the trees, near and far, 

As ebony shadows with feathery silhouettes. 

Grace of the crepuscule, Beauty of the night, 

Your fireflies mimic my flickers of vibrant cinders, 

As my cigarette flutters a slender, creamy haze 

In the smooth, supple gusts of the breeze that slowly hinders, 

Thus leaving smoke lingering stagnant, in mid humid air. 

Brisk nightly winds, stinging my nostrils as I inhale. 

Thereafter, feeling tepid as I let out. 

The nightly winds that give the timber breath,  

Reminding me of their spirits, I have no doubt. 

The nightly winds that caress over every pore. 

Lunar gleams, trembling on dark ember leaves. 

As I become enraptured by Gaea. 

Rather mystical, though remarkably real to ignore. 

Grace of the crepuscule, Beauty of the night, 

Taupe colored moths, fluttering like fluffy translucent stars. 

A motif of harmony, 

Nocturnal birds chant chirrups as cicadas sing serenades,  

As I hearken from not too afar. 

Hollow spaces, in a dark sky painted with sheep, 

Form many obscure figures, as if she were speaking to me. 

Can you feel her? 

Do you believe? 

Her grace has no mercy on me. 

-FBS