Poem for the Night People

I sit here in my bed, waiting for the sleep
That does not come to take me to the land
Of dreams, and so I write
A poem about the butterflies
I sometimes see as I walk down the street.

They're many colors.
Not a single one that I can
Easily recall. I know
That brown is not the color.
If that was the case they would be moths,
But these are butterflies,
Vibrant in their majesty
Creatures of the day.

If they were moths,
I'd recognize them.
I know my kin.
I see them all the time
As I lie awake at night
Thinking about their cousins,
Vibrant in their majesty
Creatures of the day.

Words, Words, Words

Words are meaningless
If meaning is a less
Than worthy word.
Its heart is full
Of idle tricks and turns.
Nothing is certain.
No word has the power
To stay the same.
No word can hold its meaning
When it feels the test of time.