Is it I - the one
Me, who has to
strangle on this
side of
the morning?

With the lashes
of dew still
dripping, tripping
off of the
edge of
the fire.

Reminders
left there - all curled
up and slowly
deceasing
down into
the open eye.

Fog languidly
sweeps up from
our hollow valley
and begins to
eat away

slowly and slowly
into our
lives; Built on
chaos and
disarray from

Each other.
Can
you feel it?
Can
you feel
the thunder?

The Majestic,
The Majesty
Of the
Unknown. . .
The whispering
voices.

Awakened by
her songs
in the soggy
morning light.

A crack in
the shades,
reveals a
world

waiting to
be found,
when you
decide

to be a
man and
put

your shirt
back on
and

realize that
you've
just

dreamt
that
same

old dream

again. . .