March 5, 2000: Below the surface of realm
Who is it I think I am? What is it I think I am? Because it sure doesn’t exist now…thoughts, with roots so deep—not a mall shall be built nor a child climb…not until the soul recognizes itself on a foggy morning. Bridge not a highway, for a road is man made—leading you to a man made vision. Bridge the emptiness, for air isn’t error—a path in your name—taking you deeper within. The spiders web—not circular nor in my face, tying branches in knots, gathering angel tears left behind in the morning fog. Must be—I saw it. Can’t be—I didn’t feel it.