I spoke to a looking glass hoping for some new vision to explode uncontrollably glorious visit from a mentor music coming out of me. But today... I don't feel one thing. No secret friends just a few pictures fantasy art of exotic women female form photography online waiting to be the next fantasy fairy. Mirror placed close to my face I had to look away twas a pitiful display of feeling just about nothing. My eyes that once burned with tears craving the lust of beautiful drawings left a pitiful trail of ice. I had to hope that no one would catch me days of no colors at all breathless exotic fairies. I had a chance to build a trail along a line of light the moon had gone chasing a room of stars in flight and all the while the sun stopped shining in honor of those inner photographs that held up banners for my pathetic prayers to no one just the tune of the night. Words for a wounded soldier came to mind and so I put those containers of stars away. Sacrifice your name for honor line the box with old songs and all the angels could say was hate is a very consuming blanket. Yet its easy to package and travels well on instinct. And thus the rhythm of sainthood took pause a conscience or just a quirk a stupid list of rules in a confessions absence. Is it possible that the angel did not see the weariness in my eye before I fell? Didn't see the door open or courage that once inspected closely had melted? Is it possible that she missed her own open wounds female forms photographed unguarded erotic pleasures displaying mine instead? And from that space simple flower fairies race toward things they might not understand exotic potential spun glass figurines tiny statues of grace acting out directions. Despite the emptiness that others do profess once inspected the freedom of it is glaring. Pausing reflecting I say back to me who and where and why are still useful tools to knock on doorways and celebrate their rebellion. The fantasy art of this professed exotic woman still intact she's just waiting for another moon.