Those things you hide from your own eyes,
safe from the fire light called “realize”
they carve themselves upon the mask that is your face,
each evening when light goes down in bows of grace,
The dark emerges, hungry in all directions
seeking that which has not reached perfection
With morning light comes but the chance
to face the mask again, again repeat the dance.
Prying eyes must upon themselves use force
remembering their ancient source.
The ones who have nothing from this place to fear
Have shed all snakes, and through the venom freedom made clear.
The destination can be found on any ground from womb to tomb
it drips within our hearts in phoenix tears of honey comb