opening the doors
|
opening the rooms to us
|
a hope to transcend
|
this deadened consciousness
|
i call home
|
|
|
passion drains the pain away
|
biting through
|
as ice storms wait to pierce the flesh
|
and i wait too
|
|
a wild eyed child running faster than
|
the echo of her mother's loving voice
|
closing over us all
|
|
opening the doors
|
opening the rooms to us
|
a prayer to feel again
|
the warmth of memories
|
i call home
|
|
spellbound into this domain
|
of dreamlike waters' heavy groan
|
it is nothing more than that
|
that which we have always known:
|
|
that six months is not long enough
|
to forget that everything erased will be written again
|
for now we know,
|
the waiting is until the end
|
the waiting is until the end
|
|
-----------------
|
a waiting time
|
| Autumn |
