Muscles of Antartic shiver,
filled to the brim with Moroccan air.
Hostility, in the eyes of the beholder,
the same which encompass love,
or is it nothing more than a fisher
and his line?
Now it's a boiling kettle,
eyes fixed, finger hugging the trigger.
There must be self salvation.
There must be a way to dance in the
street,
with nothing but an umbrella
and the energy of my inner child.
Self conscious ways
lead to an unconscious heart.
It's time to take a risk,
otherwise time will only take you.
Listen close, my dear.
I am the power inside of you,
the voice that calms your gun motored
heart,
calms your worried eyes into
pretentious sleep.
I have seen the ways you have
struggled,
as if you were a player, who didn't
know the game.
I saw you when life was nothing but a
string,
with scissors held close. I've seen the
stranger
about to snip the line.
I'm glad you heard me.
You
may not know my reasons,
why I
accompany such a splintered soul,
but it
is because you have not yet acknowledged,
the
presence of the pieces, the ability to be
better
than you ever imagined.
I am in love with
your fragile soul.
Beneath
it all, I see the heart
far
bigger than most have.
I feel
the pain, launching tears
forward
like a worried rain,
yet I
want to hold the sun
and
dry them.
Darling, you may feel so alone,
but you have never been so surrounded
by all of those saints you cannot see.
