Life is a matter of makeup and masks, pretences and paths that cross where the blind stand and wait to be seen.
Stones that are thrown are like flightless arrows from the bow held by those who seek revenge for a life to be known.
Standing and falling are the same, we sleep alone, guided by guilt and blame, hoping that soon the game will give way to rest.
The struggle is senseless, created and conditioned by fear of loss, worn like an indelible mark to protect the heart.
The self sits back, relaxed, waiting for the glance, to enter the dance as the mirror, reflecting light from within.
Maybe this time! Maybe this time!
Russ Kendall
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