Wounded is the trance…
The predictability zigged, instead of wanderingly zagging.
A reformulation of the mystery,
Making once again, the unknown that lurking shadow further down the hall.
I urge for the exit.
Thoughts mix and reflect like a hand me down,
Festering the blankness of innocence,
Or perhaps the lack thereof?
To know me is to wonder,
To wonder is to perfect.