Wounds have little choice but to be transitory
Yet it takes a good half, of a dull wet morning
For me even to reach into the emptiness of
The nothingness which only existed fleetingly
Although a door was opening; the half silence
And the half-tired mindless daydreaming
Led me to that place of feeling, feeling though
Not of rational self, not of this conscious self
As if ones mind (brain) had been opened
By a tin opener, for it to breathe in the many
Airs; of irresponsibility, hope, and anguish
With the canopy lifted, my thoughts could fly
