Moon at Half Past Noon

I watch a child chase sunlight’s gleam,
Her laughter spills, a waking dream.
Is this the soul of life, this glow?
Or does the world, unthinking, know?

My fingers trace a mug’s old crack,
Its warmth a whisper, calling back.
Does sentience make my heart more true?
Or hums the clay as my heart does too?

A dog’s sharp bark cuts through the dusk,
A fleeting cry, like mine, of trust.
What sets us free, what makes us whole?
The breath we share, or seeking soul?

The photograph, its colors fade,
Yet holds a love that time remade.
All things—alive, or still, or worn—
Are shaped by hands, by years, by morn.

I mold the world with every care,
A child’s small hand, a whispered prayer.
But stars, unthinking, shift their place,
And time itself reworks the space.

Is consciousness the air we breathe?
Or lingers soft in all beneath?
No line holds fast, no truth confined—
We’re all the hum, the heart, the mind.