Dale Lloyd

Why does beauty make me cry? While certain music makes me high. It’s not like it started yesterday—
I have always been this way.

Even as a child so young
I wrote poetry, and songs I sung.
The morning dawn, the setting sun—
when each and every day was done—
brought a teardrop to my eye;
the night was met with welcome sigh.

Both the summer and winter moon
made my spirit leap within.
Inspired imagination
carried on the wind.

I have been a warrior,
a lover, and a friend.
Where does reality begin
and imagination end?

Who determines what is real,
what in fact is true—
is it me?
Is it you?

There are always those
who have it figured out.
To them there is no mystery.
They dismiss what can’t be explained,
what cannot be seen.

In my youth I was embarrassed
by my falling tears;
apologies have marked my steps                                                           through so many confusing years.

But not now.
I weep. I laugh.
I still stare at the moon.
And if my flight of fantasy never ends,
it will be too soon.

Let others judge me as they must
as on toward the end I go.
I’ll trust my being
to the only One
who really fully knows.