When I hear steps and understand they're yours, not mine.
They resonate throughout, they know no walls at all.
Through countless years I've come to heed their call.
I pull apart the bitter twilight blue.
Here's an old house, above -- the dying Moon.
And here is me and our three-windowed room.
...
But one can't rip open the scars
And one can't let in the Word.
All that you had retained there
Cannot be found here.
So I rush forth after you,
But if I swim like that
I'd overstep the waking realm
Yet lose grip of your Thread.
...
/ A.M.
