They cut my palms from wrist to *******
tethers that were my formation of all were
sacrificed for there gratitude for my sight was
not to be formatted into a form there eyes to yield
A difference of consciousness and so my embodiment
of creation was but word and thought.

But I knew if I was too breach the wind. what could not
be penned though even many had blossomed from
cognitions of knowledge. these seeds of enlightenment
would be severed from the root. I would be
a mute as the clear sky nothing but wisps of
colour but nothing seen or heard.

I am a poet a drawer of creation either malignant
or statuesque, Words that could open a thousand
doors in the subconscious or unbar that singular one
that could enlighten the world. But alas I am
of a place where my thoughts are but a jest that would
be expunged from others minds.

**"I linger in infinitely, but I am but a grain falling for a moment,