Poetry

Window

  I'd open my dragging, sleep nagging eyes up to the windowsill that lay just above my head. My eyes watered for a moment as they adjusted to the small amounts of color and light that lay ahead. The moon, a dusty color of what everyone believes to be yellow, surrounded by a musky, murky dark blue. The clouds a dark gray or merely a light black as they dragged themselves throughout the dark ocean that was the sky. It's sheet covering all the lights of stars.

  Glancing a bit further down, a house and a few trees block the behind scenery of the world. The colors also a faded look as night was the current surrounding atmosphere..
  It was the perfect scene. No winds to disturb the perfectly portrayed leaves and no shafts that'd blow the surrounding clouds in the way of the moon. It was purely gorgeous.
Not to mention the light orange, red glow of the street lights to the left side of the house- and the moonlight to the right..

  It was creating a perfect moment. Like a battle between ice and fire that lasted nearly eight hours- never ended- and yet was never started. It's like a violent peace that only strikes when the eyes of the waking human are closed.

  All of that- and I'm simply looking out the eyes of a windowsill.

New series?
" Late Night Stories " ?

It's a free-verse poem, by the way.