let us stop squinting our eyes and licking our pursed lips.
we are prostituting ourselves to the dead things.
those that do not speak. or hear. those that are dust.
comprised of flakes, miniscule particles of malicious mites.
blown off the windowsill by our anxious laughter.
there is no peace in this.
we have become unrecognizable. the truth is not in us.
prisoners to our illusory freedom.
with lashes curled we attempt to lure the affection of others.
adoration was never ours. we were loved poorly.
and rejection has twisted us out of alignment ever since.
since the booming voice called out to the brooding darkness,
Love has been summoning us home.
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