Each Situation—quite Unique—
It is by Chance, that anything at all
Gets to the Page, through me—
It's always Rushed, and never Planned—
I am Never, in Control—
But I Allow,—and put Aside
Everything else I Know—
For Timeless Words, that would not Be
If I'd no Ears to Listen
To the Faintest, Fading, Broken Voice
Of an Angel's Ghost in Prison—
Her Slow Escape, is my only Goal—
And I've seen Her Eyes in Lucid Dream—
And I would Guess, there's only One,
Who'd Believe these Words are not by Me.
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