A Feathery Morning, Sealed With a Kiss

The morning dew collects,
As the tired son expects
His purpose to appear,
In hopes that she is near.

There the son waits,
Inside the metallic gates,
The rising sun and fading moon,
Most certainly without doom.

For, beyond the trees,
Just past the fields,
Fly the bees,
And beyond the limitless sea,
The key to dreams.

Simplicity has its hold,
Those fateful moments,
Creating a certain perpetual mold,
Roaming to unspoken lands.

Would he wake up?
The soft morning,
Feathers on his skin.
And there she is,
At the gates again.