"Sometimes I write not for myself, I writer for the truth."
Provoked by the innocent
A sudden awakening
Jolted numbers wash ashore
Lifeless treads across concrete jungles
Mask petty desires of an open hand.
Gulps of shallow air
Reaking drafts pulling in
Floating souls below broken-winged doves
Silence burdens weighted lips
A pen's stroke soon lifted
Still motions grasped violently
A single mark outnumbered
By shunned laughter along distant waves.
Among few, truth is sought
Outdated falsehoods are swept aside
The temperament of the heart confounded
Although single drops of hope remains
Flush of certainty it will become.
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