When will these voices inside stop listening?
Keep a turn to the rusted spring, a ruffled winter
quenches not thirst of feathered innocence
The mirror has a hidden face, memories of centuries
and painted dreams will not reveal the shades of ash
laden stink of twisted minds
So gently amble in the corner of the dark, touch
not the tears of the fog, will you confront the 'I'
quivering and trembling as the one who never
wrote this poem?