They say the eyes are the windows to the soul,
but your dark iris's and heart prove to be cold
and barren of love, or life, or hope.

I took the knife from your back with care.
With gentle touch, I stitched the tear
to reveal a secret unbelievably rare.

A smile broke on to your face,
leaving my heart to shatter and break.
For that split second my soul shall always ache.

There is a lie in every fairy tale
and a secret in every spoon
and both usually stay well hidden
from the time for breakfast
and the hour of bedtime stories
but there is a place
within the telling of dreams
that an old wise witch
of strange young beauty
will read your fate
with only words of truth
that she stirs out of a soup
made out of the alphabet
of the comfortable lonely sky
and feed you slowly
with the spoon
of her mothers grandmothers mother
that has been handed down
from the first star ever born
to the last name
of the last god
yet to be named
or prayed to
and in that instant
you will know every secret
and detect every lie every told
and you will be a  baby
and an old man
and a young girl
stealing her first kiss
from a shy boy
and a butterfly and a snail
and the leaf that feed you both
and you will be
the last tree on earth
and the first flower
to bloom on Jupiter
and the death of Mars
and the heartache of Venus
and you will know
who made who first
and learn that that knowledge
means very little when compared to
the virtues of loves
true heart and reason
and the witch will close your hand
and seal it with a stolen kiss
and smile and laugh and giggle
and give you a mischievous grin
and you will understand
why spoons keep secrets
and the importance of lies
that hide in fairy tales

I don't want to tell sad stories
the world has enough
oddly soft focused, florescent beacons
as far as the eye can see
all the other stories
sharp edged brilliant
lost in the bright fog
of lost heart, lost love, lost life
so I try to grasp the harder thing
hold the smaller
harder moments
that don't make you bleed