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I rise from sleep, as a ray strokes my shoulder. Wishing to walk unveiled |
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to the world - my flesh on view. These things stand in our way - the cold |
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of the earth, the state of our minds. And the camouflage. The sticky |
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threads that communicate the meaningless in a thousand different ways. My |
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voice shuns your honey words on hour glass shapes. On the fragile, unreal, |
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objects of desire. The words don't flow, neither the feelings. No more ink |
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on wood to betray my thoughts. Just this - a cry on the dark side. |
