The things we hide on the inside
become necklaces
of gilded ears
sharpened by arrow heads
daring to leave the shingle
for swollen mouths of water
big and discolored
the sound of anvils
aching to strike
If I could I would
reach into decoupage
pull out damp envelope
with large words and self corrected emotions
cutting through paper made of souls
read your varnished secrets
let them roam
beyond lacquered confine
of what is safe and secure
until they pulp our learn
split, break and reawaken
even without wings, chewing ourselves new
we can glide on thin papier-mâché tips
glimmering in linseed oil, to Kashmir and back
if we believe
TheFeatheredSleep 