Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Hold my hand. It slips, don't you see?
So hold my hand.

Your hand, your hand, your hand!
What about mine? Dusty it is.
Dust never leaves.

Dust holds, then it doesn't slip.
But dirty they will be, our hands.

Did you say our? Your, you are worried about yours.

Dusty hands, slippery hands, hands all the same.
Thrust them into mine, I shall thrust mine into yours,
Together we thrust, together we feel.
But dust never leaves, nor does sweat, dirtier it gets.
Dark nights
strangling woods
yet a streak of light.