Door cracked open with the key in the hole. I teeter, tip-toed on the edge.
I no longer sing behind stone walls where they can't hear me.
The mountains, they awaken to my morning songs.
Cliché — I am.
But all lovers are. It is mocked until it is known, until you know
that the seas and skies are not large enough.
They are never enough.
Transparent — I am.
A sleek and polished looking glass. No flowery prose nor leaden lines.
Windowpanes defogged, and my sleeve is damp.
I trace patterns into the glass.
They see me. They know.
Vulnerable, I am.
I am not afraid.
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The picture is very provoking. And so...vulnerable am I as well but not so transparent and, I hope, not a cliche. I do think it's true that before long the seas and skies will no longer be enough.
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