Swallowing unreal feelings and unreal smiles, we begin to see through sand-filled stiles while oppression wells from unpaved miles, and deprived, turned the soul's windows from lighted styles.
Yet all is done to protect the innocent within. For we hold onto to memories of childhood so slim, to keep that which we treasure to wing from cries of tarnish and subjugation with means.
Oh but do we not hear the child inside? It pleads and whisper form aside...
'I pray for truth, I pray for light. I am your muse so long ago in flight. The box is empty and I am wrought. The world is out there but I am not.'