Can you feel its' touch? So warm and comforting, it spreads across your fingers like a hand-sown quilt:
Tiny dust particles dance up and down, this way and that with a seemingly unspoken joy;
And if you listen closely, sometimes you can hear their glorious chant;
A roaring that whistles past your nose and cheeks,
And as bright yellow rays light up our faces, they almost shine as a ray of truth,
Showing a face of judged proportions, and often finding no pride in this revelation.
These faces shy back to the shadows, hiding the glories that the curves of thier lips and eyes entail.
Don't you know? It whispers with a happy bliss,
If you aren't who you are, you might as well be nobody at all;
Where is there to start?
With no beginning to begin, or end to end,
It's all just pretend.