One poor quality picture.
Light pours from a corner on the floor of an unruly mess.
It's like a stab in the back, like a warm cup of milk
that will drift you to slumber on the coldest night.
It's like a cat in the darkness, all you see is a shimmer
of it's neon honey eyes that dart into invisibility.
There's an orange tinge embodying the the walls, the air, all eyes, and all
that want and adore and dream and love and see what's not seen in you by others.
In the dark of a dull orange room walls can only know what you have felt.
The walls can only speak what has been spoken
but only she can speak the words you've left unspoken.
Synthetic light strikes your face with razor blades deepening every crevace
That darkness hides during every midnight session.
It's insanity of the waning moon that lives and kills each month.
It's a refugee running tunnels under the enemis feet.
It's the way a swimmer holds her breath when sinking in her passion.
Or a secret parade that can't be held in fear of condemnation.
Lean upon the wall you sit by to gather affectioned protection,
In the secret room on a secret day, secret hours, minutes, seconds.
watch the camera steal your history watch the strangers in possesion,
of your secret life that must be hid in the vaguness of the world.
It's open to argument, it's open to discussion, it's open to interpretaion.
Who cares if they see us they won't possibly guess
besides it's not open to damnation.
We'll be like the deepest part of the ocean, the farthest star in the galaxy,
Flying free so out of reach from expected reality.