I'm wondering how I've got to here,
this point where I'm ready to face all my fears.
Where all these cries of hatred,
will fall upon deaf ears.

Smoke which clouds the trail ahead,
Swiftly and smothly clears.
A wave of a hand, could show us a place to land,
or wipe away warm tears.

A sence above all others,
Past tence, or present stutters,
define what we hide behind our shutters,
and barley spoken mutters.

There is a height which we can reach,
once we decide to breach
this barrier which seems to keep
in these words we wish to speak.

Each branch which may, lay in the way,
can be overcome with one great leap,
as each and every single day,
is one more day we keep
small secrets in the deep.