I have run in fear of hierarchy and seudo embrace - to lay hands upon embroidered skin,
skin so arbitrarily tainted that it smells of innocent seas and eloquent loss.
I discovered ignorantly hand stitched protest that formed naivety in effortless waves.
An effort so void of physical touch and second sight,
that it resembles a vastness that once drowned the lesser version of my inhabitants.
I climbed mountains in length to hang upon a crucifix made of passion and scrutiny,
a comfort known by none but a malicious compliance requested by authority,
only to regenerate the secrecy of silence.