Monday, October 24, 2005


Speak to the wise she said.
Offer your soul... in hand.
Who listens to the bleeding heart?
Who travels past the moans and starts?
Medals pile up for the non dreamers.
Medals cover schemers
and in the distance I hear red roses moan.
Speak to the bleeding heart.
Speak to the room cold and dark.
I cover my eyes
and smooth the blankets
comfort my mind.
After all...
who really wants to discover
the motives of our calls?
We speed past souls that whine,
layer their layer of motives.
I won't sleep in the distant cold,
focus on colors ... yellow now old.
If gentleness flows through the rivets of old
I'll turn over... grow alone, turn to stone, alone.
Leaves of many colors fall,
cover up
while someone calls.
Secrets are unending.
Yet... we can hide a child with care.

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