the holy holes we dug into our yellow yards blaze gold under the sun,
stuffed with our secret selves and the worst and best we’ve done.
on snowy nights, under the moon, sometimes we kneel and pray,
because those holes became so deep and we wish for them to stay.
but times goes on, the winds blow strong, and the holes slowly begin to fill,
despite the ways we watch them, sad, trying to keep them there through will.
Bits Of An Insomniac 