Four walls and a bed to hang onto.
What is moving in here? It isn't you.
Your eyes hold on something that will tell them comforts;
they're holding tightly to that tiny mechanism,
gears too small to see, roots too deep to feel.
We all convulse - every path connecting.

There are answers in black rooms that pull you shut,
whispering to the outside of your eyelids:
"he'll never see me.
Not even after the day he dies, he'll never see me."
We're only strays.
Last edited by Martyr's Prayer at Dec 6, 2011,