fermented feelings rise to the surface,
faces of people, veins of memories remaining, while the moments are missing.
old habits have died, the night is naked.
the call is of the forest, to unravel the roots of our callous existence.
we are only scratching the surface when we say, we want to be loved.
beneath the ice berg, are the memories we reproduce, in our light, like scented candles, unsuitable for funerals.