Saturday, January 16, 2010


(In which things can never be oversimplified, indeed.)


Pretenses. I have a lot.
Forced by the fear of being naked before you, I hid.
But your eyes slashed through my depths
like cold-bladed sword
I became transparent again.

Words. You have a lot.
Polished by aged skill, you drift in the darkness
scattering glitters.
Sparkles visually gone in seconds
But not in everything else.

If we cut this thread we believe had bound us,
will we find our way back?
Will you find your way back?
Or will we just forget we have met again
And exist the way we always have?