Deluded Noveliste. 5.24.01 My eyes are full of blinding clouds I lose track of an hourglass                       that hardly matters any longer Living has become a habit                        an addiction I endure daily I always thought I had a heart of steel                        cold and smooth... unbreakable. And now I discover                         a heart of brittle roses, so thorny and so fragile                         easily trampled by raping, pleading, windblown feet Tired faces, bleary eyes Tattered hands and wordy lies Hold me in the dark                        and I won't tell you my own story                        if you keep your incomplete, sacreligious novel                        on the tip of your tongue                        ready to spill at the slightest tug.