Love Letters In A Vault

Love letters in a vault, never delivered, never even written. Beneath the maze, the shattered mirror image, down the rabbit-hole, into the false self. My personality was just a band-aid over a black abyss where great beasts did battle. Beneath it all, a tiny baby crouches in the shadow of the beasts. That is who I am, not this mouth that births broad rivers of words, not even this pen. Can this pen voice the cries of a child who cannot speak? Can the pen adopt the child? Find him a home, find him trust? The child can’t trust, he kneels in the shadows where the great beasts roar, how will his voice ever be heard from down that well through the false light refracted off shattered shards of self, up through the many voices, voices of steel, voices of glass, voices of water, voices of stone, voices of cities? The voice of a child’s heart is a faint strain, pleading