Fingers Resting On The Moon Poem by Dante Pellegrino

Hidden beneath soft wooden floor boards
of men and women in relationships spoken for tell they're tales of romance and physical attraction
With they're playing hands, intertwined with fate
reaching far, imaginations run wild
you're secret is my best friend

Enter through a door
past a candle in a
well-lit room
I see into the past,
neglected by my future
by my sad eyes
obscurity comes to life

I lay ye down
my fingers resting upon solid ground
a dimming in a royal Faust of harvests;
Sycamores frantically sway back and fourth in a windless funnel
standing tall, shedding bark
stretched wide
through open windows,
In castled sky's
evergreen trees in bloom
create genteel scenes that set the mood
life before me passes by
Out of light and into darkness,
my ashes turn to dust,
blown away by a gentle breeze,
which wisps across a limerick field
the lazy face of time staring back at me
a sweltering heat fueling
a fire burning in a naked forest
scours for rain that will not come
save me from thy dying pain