Pupils that dilate, like two moons,
Over the crest of my sand shaken shore.
Hills that roll,
Stars in the blackness of a void,
Which hang the portrait of night.
The pinnacle of time,
A sunset realm,
Sun washed horizons,
Echoing sounds in the night.
Stalagmites in a cave of mystery,
Enshrouded layers dank with dew.
Fair ground trees piercing the blackness,
Pyramids across the cliffs forever.
I wish away to glide puffed cotton clouds,
Strange sights amidst the unknown,
Seen in dreams, telling of landscapes,
Shadowy in the realm of night.
POEM COPYRIGHT PAUL JONATHAN STOKES ,
ART COPYRIGHT JON HAWARD 2011