2005-08-03 -- 1:02 a.m. What I see, White lines connect each other, Connect within a grid, Rain fourth upon my palms, Upon my spirit, Not into this world, But another, One world that we both live in, That we survive in, Bathe and birth. Relive our mother’s, Tears, And our fathers wipe’s, Raise one day our own, But the white connecting grid, Keeps flowing through us all… Given many names, Performed a million times, Rush’s from our aura’s, Into our eye’s, ears, Grazes our skin, And flow’s in scents up our nostrils. But most of deny it, Because we need it written out in ink, Performed on film, And drawn on canvas. And in these many names, Dormant it became, Dawning flawlessly on a few, Scared chosen. Showing us the sacred, Meaning, the answer to the question. The knowledge what we need to know. But still most of deny it. *In this realm, in this world, in our line of thinking, and even in our lives, there is a place. It does not exist, nor does it hold any truth, or hold any lies. The simple truth of the whole matter is, is that its there. And nothing as complex as the truth can hold this place together. Only a white grid that we are all privy too, but chose to deny can hold this place together.*