As a quiet exposer of poetry,
I fantasize an enigma of colors.
A transition of calculated emotions,
From memories woven to the brain,
As a quilt, would be.

I have written on stones & brick.
Hoping somebody knew,
That I was there, once upon a time.

We were bred to defend & protect,
A kindness,
Crafted so rare,
To shield the good,
From Evil & it's hidden agenda.

It is I,
Who knows how we fix ourselves.
How we get justice,
For failed attempts to try.

How to restore faith,
In the lighthouses & buoys, out on the ocean,
With only a constant dance with the currents.

How to,
Enable ourselves,
To look another in the eye,
& see them for who they are.

And simply die & live
As the purest blue-blood.