The truest of thoughts remains to be seen.  The white of

your wing stands distant, and I remain haunted by the

words you don't say.  Each moment of silence; a mural

of anguish, a bridle of fears.  Each moment, alone, in

the hush of your lips and of my own quiet tears, is the

grain of ten decades, and one hundred cold years.  This

lasting unknowing is denial at hand, all-engulfing the

daylight, and my night sky is damned.  Speak those shy

thoughts that you've buried in stone.

I'm alone, I'm alone, until your heart is one shown.













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