When I close my eyes I’m in, when I open them.
It’s no different. I’m in. I’m in. I’m in It.
A blossom that hasn’t budded yet.
It is the Vine, and I’m genuine.
A wild rose grafted into the endless surroundings.
weaving in with the branches around me,
Swept away from the desert sands, all whispering gratefully.
Seeing through the storms threatening to swallow them.
An advantage? Or a sobering victory.
Something there to constantly remind me.
Nothing is as it appears to be.
What am I to do, now, with these eyes in me?