openings

doorways into a brokenheart

allow my eyes to see new light

the stickiness of the spokenpart

is the line between what's wrong and right

there is of course a cracklingsound

it's the flaking soul; and it's loves' excite

raised from the static that's all around

a fantasticvoyage, or terror by night

there's a thin redline between love and hate

stronger even than the sum of its plight

a tightrope of cotton that willnot abate

regardless of greyblackshades of white

doorways are nothing but peoplesized holes

with space for us all to gently requite

and to see right through to the ends of our souls

will putback the colour that's lost from mysight...