A soul that soars and sings will seldom scream,

nor make a plea filled prayer to open air.

A world of substance not regrets or dreams;

short lived are tears, woes or human cares.

Not just part but at the middle of things,

awake where others sleep behind wide eyes,

rising to the sky by sentient strings

tugged ever upwards on visceral highs.

The moon for all its seeming sober form

is not in obeisance to the yellow sun.

Simply because we find that one is warm,

doesn't mean the still night is ours to shun.

Rejoice, listen, celebrate what's been given;

something more than is gained through religion?