As an illusion,

We separate ourselves,

From the doubt of Man,

The inability to be human,

Beneath the lights,

A foster child,

With the moon as its mother,

Unseen through all this artificial light,

An attendance,

Set in stone,


And forgotten.

Such Bliss, I could tell you,

My heart has stopped.

Blood for Blood,

Warriors with no creed,

With no faith,

Wrapped around,

Her solid fingers,

She prevails,

The priestess,

In the dark,

Without God,

Beneath 300 pounds of broken soul,

300 pounds of cold heartedness,

300 pounds of dignity.

Beneath her battered body lies the soul of a goddess,

Beneath her shattered pride lies the ghost of a woman.

The smoke rises,

It comes off,

Their itty-bitty fingers,

Their itty-bitty toes,

No colours on their skin,

No pigment in their eyes,

They cry,


Yet solemnly…


The pathways may lead out of this place,

But the gateways are never open.

Daylight hits,

The reflection of a clay city,

Of heaven on the sea,

What it means to me,

I could never tell you,

Because fairy tales,

Are like bullets,

Lodged into your skull,

And dying,

Yet the world is spinning,

But Seattle,

Like a snow globe,

Stays frozen,

In time.

No matter how it’s shaken,

The snowflakes cannot descend beyond its glass walls.

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