I speak the song of silence.
No one hears.
What would happen if I opened my hands
Cupped over the moths in my heart?
They tell me that I have the eyes of a stained glass window.
I'm not sure if that's really a compliment
Because after all, stained glass is still stained.
I tell myself that my spine is made of stags' horns
And that I can climb the highest mountains.
I can't.
It seems the world is a little hard of hearing
When I'm preaching happiness
And a little bit blind
When I offer handfulls of violets.
Once, my mother told me that I was the sun
But that was before I knew about astronomy.
Anyway, I'm still laughing about how fast things happen
When you're turned the other way, or sleeping,
Or better yet, lost in dreamland, creating a landscape of your own.
Isn't that the best way to be?
At least it keeps me from waltzing with shadows
Or foxtrotting with the flipside.
You say I'm fraudulent?
I will point to your own feathered mask.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Sarapin, in the year 604 AF.