There is a name calling out
in the silence of the mind.

There is a space
where clutter occupies.

There is a creation
at the end of destruction.

There is pain,
and love,
and pain again.

A wheel of self-abuse,
the likes of which gets us high
in each and every revolution.

There's always more to it than meets the eye.
Two flowers behind the fence house a million stories,
Insurmountable for all to tell by.
For some it's just two unnoticible flowers,
For some it's the cradle of spring,
For some it's imagery of prison,
For some it's lovers in their haven,
For some it's forbidden opportunities,
For some it's consequence of a strife,
For some it's an offering to a loved one,
For some it's just the cycle of life.

if our souls were lines
mine is parallel to hers
close but never meet

like parallel lines
                  
                                        we'll never meet