January twenty-eighth, two thousand eleven:

Spoken reflections leave broken confinements

And enter safe havens others have inhabited.

Screams fly down the hills to all-time lows

But never stay below with masked puerility,

Always floating away with boundless talks.

Smoke liberates the tacit thoughts of a child

And cuts the provisional strings on its arms.

Forgotten time impairs the visions of souls,

Generating pensive thoughts of the unknown.

Minds welcome fainting spells sung by stars.

Will I escape through the doorway to dream?