Under the Yawning Moon

Laying under the yawning moon,
wanting to stare
but shut away
behind my eyes.

I'm cold.

I'm on the grass
and it's soft but it hurts,
and it tickles my hands
as they drift slowly over the
tiny green blades.

And there's an owl
somewhere above me
in the whispery
canopy of leaves,
hooting softly with its
fluttering lyricism.
Softly, softly, the sweet old owl.
I can hear the rustle of its wings
as it takes off,
a secret
flurry in the night.

Everything is still.
Everything is quiet.
Everything is as if
it belongs in a lovely dream.
It is there,
though,
as I am.

But I should not be.

I am an invader.
I lie there,
swaying only
with the passing of time,
as if I were
a corpse.

I don't belong.