To stand vacant and alive, to stand on earth and sand, to stand on motion and space. You wear silence with splendour, you wear calm with serenity. Tears slide across your face like expectant tales and fables, they drip distinctly and forever indistinctly onto the forest floor. Tears are diamonds and emeralds for angels and demons, they collect them in leather purses, distribute them amongst the gods - for favours. To sit or stand in a daze, to rupture the dreams of men and beasts, this is your destiny. Many lie spreadeagled in blood and coal dust, like flowering birds, smocked in feathers and shame. The beast wears a crown and a collar, the hangman wears a diadem of berries, fresh from the forest. Scars can be deep, cuts can be shallow, it is the way of flesh that it puckers and pinches, it slides and it pulls. So the moon is full and your tears glide and slide across your sunken cheeks. Wounds come and go but always stay in place...the iron gates make sure of that. So unwrap your tears, close the book, hold hands with self, and exit the wounds.