With the brush in my hand, with the world as my canvas, I will create a new and pure world where the only things heard are the gentle birds sitting on a window pane in the glistening rain, the birds they sing for the world, to tell a tale un-heard. They speak of a time when sky wasn't as high, when the limit is the sky. I'm only halfway into my flight to touch a star that isn't so far away. The closest moments I am to the stars are when I see the sparkle in your eyes, it's the reason why I'm still alive. I want to thrive, to hold you in my arms and look into the sky. Those deep blue eyes, surprise me with a new sight everytime they glisten in the light. A new color rises from your soul and fills the hole in my heart. You take aim with that piercing dart and hit the bottom of my thoughts, where the thinking is slowed to a stop and stands still at the thrill I get from thinking. I have a ravishing hunger for the wonder in the space that we do not occupy. I will have some time on my hands, in the sands, on the moon, looking at the dimming lights on the dark side of the earth, wondering if they can see the man on the moon. Painting a brighter world swirling the stars upon his finger tips, cold lips create the northern lights we see at night when you kiss the day goodbye. So the man on the moon sits with his brush with no time to rush, only the colors on the brush and a chance to make something new in the view of his own eyes.