your faces are scheduled in others
time
for me to see, touch, speak to
shame, guilt, remorse, confusion
fear...
i am redundant in my words,
thoughts
questioning the thought of hope
being abtainable
puts me damned in a personal
hell.
fumbleing...
everything is lost, but
i have everything
i break...
and if i truly love
somehow it, they 
cannot, will not
stay...
only death applys
to the word - forever.

You have weaved a golden thread
throughout my spirit
starting with type
speaking of time

Across miles of mountains and valleys,
modem lines and with touch
a place was found inside me
so parallel to mine

Late in the night
rocked in the arms of comfort
a connection bonded
that tore through the walls
of time, of the past, of false 
belifes unknown

Now, of the current,
miles of mountains and valleys,
moden lines and type
the golden thread weaves still

finding, behind the walls torn,
a truth deep in my soul.