​

 

Those moments that are

Not stitches in time but

Clips of a mosaic, the colors

Undecipherable and each of

Us realizes we are blind,

 

Or rather, we have always been

Blind, our eyes shut to more

Than just blacks and blues;

When we fear that all semblance

Of feeling has escaped us,

 

And how could it remain when

We maim one another with all

The tools at our disposal?

Dreams, Prophecies, secrets, prayers;

So many means of running,

 

Trampling, and without even Mentioning blood drawn by the Hands, tears wiped by the

Tissue, as we cower in that limbo

Between anger and longing.