The morning aches from a blunt reality,

With dyed cotton, strung together and laying about my hands.

Strength with Honor and I am reminded,

Of daggers effecting wounds I cannot reach.

A betrayal of brothers and my doorstep cold.

Numb to the pain I could not imagine....

The words land softly against my soul.

Then music soothes and reminds me of paradise.

A thought glistens, and eases into the dark.

Slow burning passion flows gently away.

Lost again.

S. Christoph