Looks, our everything.


I look nothing like
how I feel inside.
Young morning
thoughts awake
nothing but age.
Grey edged eyes
look already tired,
hammocks of flesh
hung between sleeps.

I feel nothing like
how I look inside.
Where blood sprints
and dream jumps,
where books read
and souls compose.
Where silence speaks
the loudest volumes,
where quiet dialogue
between us weeps.



John G.Hall(c)2004