They Still Whisper About the Stains
I've sullied the sidewalks, I've bloodied and muddied the walls; They still whisper at their doors.
Dark is the stain of the madness and mud of early spring.....
I can tell you I felt it change me, intangibly a loss interminably...with the weight of sorrow
.
I have begun to imagine that I may be able to heal; begun to remember my life before it was roused out of a slumber that was a innocent, ingratitious,assumption of security,home,and sanity.....
They still remember those days though; the stories the screaming-
The stories of imagination from the Islands of isolation and other Places.
Cold hearts, sharp tongues.... that seem caught on kindness to my face - Leave a mysterious shroud of vacancy...
No place to live,
No heartfelt desire to spend time with me.
Fear,or stigma.....
The stain will color their walls and floors.
Understanding and Vulnerability have undertoes to the deep
A soul can be fragile when confronted with Shame
So it's hard to say that I'm not madness screaming when you see madness and screaming
I am quiet intuition and calm reflection more than anything -
…still I know you will only whisper about the Stains...
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