Voices

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?