22 Nov 2012

the walls are sheets of parchment, they can bear no load
but for the words that are scrawled upon them
mysteries with no plot, too real to make sense altogether
underpinnings of mayhem deconstructed
the tenuous slip of destiny’s gossamer strand
if i wander far, i am only following the drift of love
if i should find home again, it is the house of love
and it is written, on these walls, it is written
the mystery of death i spend no time trying to solve
the mystery of love: unfolding, ever, now, awake

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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