I see the dilapidated constructs of perceptions fall in splintered edges under the weight of their flimsy premises. Your truth only holds as much weight as I dictate. I filter out your arguments with preconceived subtext and I preclude your ideas as perfidy.
I only see the light when it dims.
I only feel warmth when in the clutches of the cold.
I only hear words when they’re pronounced with the gentle craftsmanship of a voice that can give you hope merely by directing its attention towards you.
Discourse being drawn out by posture, eye movements and the need to fill the silence with words upon words, fumbling, landing and finding their steps.
Words that seldom reach their meaning.
I only see presence as a curtain for the substance behind it
And I can never get past that curtain.