When they leave a mark,
she grew —
she rose out of grief;
even outgrew some hidden scars,
find some glorious jams — out of scars, she later discovered, a shady gem.

When they leave a mark,
she grew —
she bred out of bare sounds;
she then understood the relevance
of empty promises — its words and its absence
the mere thought that grows with it.

She then leaves a scar;
some strain,
some courses of her daily life — some parts of her,
even when she did not become a part of theirs.

She then rose —
when they leave a mark.

Deep into the midnight
below the gleaming star,
I stepped on the running wall — the creation of Nirvana,
lights.

Heaven's an enigma
a forged between the steely and the curve
the star's collision and the minor parts
have the iciest heart — a grain of Truth.

Prophesy the future,
shuffle the sheets
and let them look at
your eyes — does it carry the dullest truth?
Or a blundered ignorance?

Does the dawn of the newborns
form the hallowed mysteries
of heaven's plea?
Into the Unborn
where the sky holds a mere certainty.

You climb long — to match the moon's faint
and the beaming sunlight;
where the galaxy
was just as narrow
as the strange fragments
of what we see?

Then if beneath us was the roaring storm,
will it expose the unborn?
Will the dream catch us
when we fall asleep?

Into the future.