…onto these pages devoid of thought. Nothing ventured,nothing lost.

 

A silver mask of vague expressions,

my hand unties and my face falls to the ground.

I am myself until i am found.

 

A lagoon of stagnant emotion,

a mirror to the canvas of the night that lays open,

and a secret star,

that never shone at all.

 

A torn sack of wheat spills forth,

more will grow from what we have when the time comes.

 

She weaves a crescent into the sun,

for her there is only one,

there is no other.

 

 

NAi RosHni