THE ECHO SPEAKS

MUTED

I see a civilization that needs no description.  Where an insatiable hunger for the touch of flesh is screamed in the minds of all.

Children of the inside, capable of the greatest creation of dreams, lie still in their silence.

Muted sarcasm.  The real and less than perfect battle the perfection in their bodies and minds to avoid the conflict of right and what is deemed "wrong."
No excuses and passivity make it hard to touch anything but the flesh of a body.  Tender or Rough.

To love a body is not to love the soul that escapes it for just a few moments in the act.  To catch a soul is as easy as catching a falling star... So flesh is what we settle for.

I see the bright lights we are...What we can be...Without armor...Without Flesh.

I believe the dreams of the age old children will break free soon...both
Tender and Harsh...drunken dreams.

They will break their muted irony and spill forth the words...

When the time comes will you be ready?

When I am ready to speak...
Will you listen?

LANE WHITT

©January 2000

12/29/00