Our fingers brush but fail to touch
the inner sanctum of the soul; that
beauty for which the body yearns.
The candid liqueur of a poet’s speech that
undrapes our honest self, the truth that
loosens the tongue of man and softens
a woman’s heart. The empty crevice
of the human mind; that late hour
at which even the darkness prays for
proof of light. These hollow words can never
return more than an echo; it is our misery
that begs for company, but madness calls it forth.
