Here I present to you
A single deck of cards.

I cannot tell you
which card is on top
nor the second, nor third.

But if we flip one over,
One by one,
And stack them into a new deck,
soon we will know the face
of every single card.

So let's take some time to wander
through these dark, dreary places
And we'll sift through these cards,
Jacks, Queens, Kings, Aces.

I will find you in the shadow of words,
in the hidden signs of silent moments,
in the eloquence of your eyes,
in a tingling in the spine,
in a trembling in the voice,
in a distant memory
be there....

Where is the magic?
We all start out knowing magic.
We are born with hurricanes
and whirlwinds, oceans
and galaxies inside us.
We are able to sing to birds
and read the clouds
and see the destiny
in grains of sand.
But we have forgotten the magic
and we feel without compass,
alone and desperately,
only selfishness, only pain,
fear and darkness.
But, magic of love has never
disappeared from the life,
the love hold the life.

Truth be told
They never owned me
Yet, I still feel chained to
The down to the
Cold concrete floor. The servers to the owner
Who created minds for the evil and
Selfishness.
One who seeks for the good in
Manifesting
They took a toll on me and blessed
Me with unconditional love

I'm a case, because the content of the feeling is open
That bridge draws the spirit of space to me
And I slide along the lines like boundaries
So it can be said and it is exclusively

Here's a set of binders in a row of all the questions
No way, take those words out.
A different form of will not shed
Acting will tremulous interest

From the expense he has an understanding of purity...

But the appearance of energy is not exactly explained.
Mark only the language
Who described a partially possible.

How attached is it?
What are the leaks based on?
Is the volume full of loud?
Even if I see a county object
Sometimes I think he is gone.

But how is the sheet the same for everyone?
Early on, the point is still set..
The process is self-born
On each string of silence
The growth in the color of the movement tone is determined.

Seamstress of my fate, behold:
This side of my is crass and cold,
Is not unsuited for a war.
Oh, seamstress of my fate, therefore,

Could you conceive a way or two,
Concealing things that I could do,
Veiling vile things that I could say.
Oh, seamstress of my fate, I pray!

For when you sow this future now,
I would not want this side to show,
Would want a dress of flowers dried,
Where not one stubby blade could hide.

Inside my brain, there is a train
Near the caboose, a man sits in a noose
Writing fiery lines in his diary
Trying to convince his provincial demons
That he should depart the train
And not this life
So he pours out his struggle and strife
Searching for catharsis
Emotional dialysis
Escape from this chrysalis
Sometimes it is diaphanous
Sometimes he is an optimist
But in the end, the shell remains
His mind untamed
He’s not insane
But he is un-sane
He walks in mental rain
He feels a mental pain
Life is a mental drain
And so he stays inside the train

One day the train flew off the tracks
Everything the man knew went out of wack
He was tumbled and turned
He laughed and he learned
He cried and he died
And on the other side, he was reborn
No longer in hiding
Standing in the wreckage
Shaken but unscathed
The man was finally free
Free to finally be