the content of ourselves is never displayed
in the bright blinding light of day
dawn does not unravel flaws in character -
saccharine never tasted so sweet, as when
gathered from the lips of the pure...

words are never spoken true where others
can hear them, legends are built on layered
half-truths, and the mockery of self continues
until it drips to the bottom of the Peshwar -

no, it is only in secret shadows where mercy
creeps close to naivety, where plots of tyranny
give birth to stillborn demons of doubt - the placenta
swallowed up by fertile mouths begging to swallow
carefully calculated barbs...

it is there that the world collapses, and the ears
of the world betray you - where echoes of the past
haunt your days and throw daggers through your dreams -
where the bitter taste of what could have been
lingers on your tongue, reminding you how far you've
fallen and your failure cries for release.....

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Ios, in the year 110 MA.