I’ve heard whispers in the night
that were never really there.
I’ve seen shadows cast by light
vanish into thinning air.
I’ve tasted the poison of anecdotes,
attempting to win me to your side.
I’ve smelled the ashes of things you wrote
long after your ink pen died.
I’ve touched the open, hallow ground,
leaving my footprints across this earth.
I’ve longed for places that can’t be found,
since the inception of my birth.
For all things that I’ve breathed inside,
I’m just left picketing fences.
I’ve killed my ego to lose my pride.
They call it the making of the senses.
