Atmosphere Yond Harvest Moon

Somewhere between the clatter of trains at the station,
I glimpsed you—transcendental, elusive, a meditation.
And there, beneath the cosmic canopy, I stood,
Staring at stars—those ancient storytellers of wood.

What madness possessed me? What cosmic jest?
For a while, ink should flow, and pages unfold,
I found myself lost in constellation embrace,
Wondering why your name danced on my soul.

Far upon a mountain, tears etched my cheeks,
The Pleiades wept alongside their sisters in grace.
Orion, the celestial hunter, watched from above,
His belt, a roadmap to realms beyond time’s trace.

Seek ye the roller of celestial stones, they said,
A gambler’s game played in the cosmic saloon.
Yet I held a pack of cards, harmonica in hand,
Yearning for wings—feathers, freedom, the moon.

Should I have been a bird, swift sparrow, or eagle?
Or perhaps a crow, wise and cunning, aloft?
A seagull riding salt-laden winds over ceaseless sea,
But never this mortal coil—a tailor, a sailor, so soft.

The gun’s weight eludes me, its purpose obscure,
Thunder roars within, a furor of doubt.
I kneel at the pagan altar, seeking a notion,
Yet an ocean spills forth, too vast to pour out.

So here I stand, upon that mountain’s crest,
Beneath Pleiades’ gaze and Orion’s stern eye.
A cosmic misfit, a wanderer of paradox,
Yearning for flight, yet anchored to earth’s sigh.

Give me wings, O universe! Or a tailor’s needle,
A cowboy’s lasso, a sailor’s salt-stung song.
Anything but this ache, this mortal longing,
For I am—simply, inexplicably—me all along.

And as the harmonica hums its plaintive tune,
I wonder if the stars, too, harbor secret regrets.
Perhaps they envy our brief, burning lives,
While we, like fools, chase eternity in silhouettes.

So let the Pleiades weep, and Orion hunt,
For I’ll keep seeking answers in the night’s embrace.
A celestial misfit, a poet with ink-stained fingers,
Yearning for flight, yet grounded in mortal grace.