The dead of night is the fire in my bones which guides me into a shadow rich labyrinth of corridor. Walls shaking like trees caressed by storm. In me there is poetry which cuts through and vilifies each season. My precious bleeding heart, how she has swallowed obediently the things I have been too terrified to speak. What has this world done to us besides turned us against ourselves. I met a man with blank eyes. I met a woman who spread out before me like an endless field of pristine snow. What is this cruel nature within and is it even cruel or simply true. Is there a difference when either way we are a house divided within. Winter heat licks my skin. I think of all the shallow souls who attempt to claw me from myself, day in and day out, the screaming. Touch rage. Touch lust. Touch myself. Hands forbidden. Hands beneath the hands of a time which will pass you by, leave you gasping for breath, leave you just as well for dead. It is this indifference which I fear the most. The suspension of the truth high above itself. When the river of the truth lives way down low. Deep in the pit of the stomach, the weight of the weight of the restless soul. If there is more to me, let it be known. If I must be made to expand, stretch me out as a star in all directions. Widen my vision and my faith. Make me believe. Because I have been on my own now with my sick seething for so long that even my golden raisin bruises are numb. I light up a cigarette and watch the sky change from black to red to oblivion. Naked and tearful, blowing smoke alone in the dark.