hey she who hasn’t escaped, I touch what you said. I feel it with my fingertips, I scoop the words in my palm and let it slip thru my fingers…slowly. they fall on the dark cold granite floor…like a bunch of tiny tiny steel balls….they scatter, they bounce, they sing, they dance, they paint the air with the screams stolen from the nightmares that you had wrapped around tighter and tighter around you for comfort. nightmares that saved you for a little wee bit longer from opening your eyes to yet another plastic and paint and synthetic and wtf, yet another day…with the only lingering connection with love is the dried wet patch on the bedsheet marking the spot of the act like a tombstone…it even smells of death of some dreams and if you have the courage to put your face on it you could hear the skeletons rattle in the coffin which you had built so nicely…where you hide those little toys and dolls you play with, those little bits of ribbon and pieces of broken bangles of every color of the rainbow and those little crayons with which you write those words which glow with stark darkness which gets me to fly into them and get so brunt ….and give out a stink of my flesh.. for you to sniff and sniff and slowly follow as it leads you to this place where you can come…where the mind can swing on the noose and dance and the body can shed its masks and come alive to some cool rain drops and some gentle touch and run with some wolves and dance in the wilderness to some strange music and draw more patterns in the sand telling untold stories and unsung poems …stories and poems which will be sung and sung aloud by many who travel the wild path around fires and after love and as tired sleep creeps on their minds…and they will thank you, for your escape gave them meaning. meaning To live. To love. To escape.