The Hand, The Furnace, The Straight Face

Quiet

It's 4 AM

I was

Sound asleep

Trying

To hunt the sheep

There is a choice

Within a voice

Lurking somewhere between

Hidden parts

And facial scars

And remnants of the deepest needs

I am convinced

In sleeplessness

That we need some source of rest

Following

With frequency

Won't become a place to lay our heads

I've searched

And tried

And tumbled in the midst

I've swallowed pride

And nullified

What's left of innocence

Reparations

Won't be made

We'll set a precedent

Never to late

To recreate

So here's your evidence

Am I getting through?

Is this loud enough?

Any means

By all extremes

This feeling follows action

You can take

My worst mistakes

And use them for excuses

Or you can try

To realize

This vessel's by itself is worthless

The hand, the furnace, the straight face