thought.
He imagines penetrating eyes
the color of dawn
with golden flecks dancing through it.
Their fire warms him,
then gradually
becomes more and more heated,
causing an unleashing
of smothered desire.
Unable to satisfy it
he lay, letting it devour him.
Exhausted
he ventures one last thought,
upon whose entrance
a weak smile
adorns his face.
Contented with this
he drifts
into tranquility.
Lass
Voice travels
across the silent wailing air
of early morning,
well before sunrise.
Hoping desperately to convey meaning
to one already balancing
over a fragile state of affairs.
A soul thrashes furiously
beneath the encumbrance of weightless words
attempting to force a clenched mouth
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