ah, who would walk down the green parches
 as silent as the wind stalk right behind you hair and tells your every step
to the walls of infamy painted on the human cross
  as the sky melts in the distorted dreary of the early morning into
everything that lives in your vision
  Its a silent walk to the pool
no roses
 no silver plates
   no monies
      no fancy clothes to compare with your canvas
          
           day breaking into pieces of bread,
                 the ears awaken on the wind,
                    to hear the broth of your voice begin.