Eerie notes from a Pan flute
cascade from her alien eyes.
Eyes open like the morning,
innocent in chaos wonder.
If the eyes of Dawn fell on me,
I would feel the sun spreading
warm light and visions of rites,
I would feel the breeze blowing
aromas of bliss from the old sea,
I would feel an ancient stirring
in colored veins of grotto marble.
But like a statue in Elysium dream,
Dawn is beyond my tangible touch.
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This is where my thoughts pool as a reservoir of miscellany and peculiarity. It's actually not my brain that's dripping -- it's my soul that's leaking. It's really no big deal.
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