Daggers

Black skies, white grounds

Stone washed grasses crunch

Under foot as I walk this

Path between the worlds.  See

The faces, twisted and warped,

Their souls shine through this

Looking glass of time.  Ripples

In the weaving of space, fraying

Silver threads peeling from my

Face as I peer through the spy hole

And see myself sleeping there.

Daggers in my eyes, yet I can

Still see everything through

The red warning light of life

While it seeps out of me.

Nightmarish images plague

This soul I carry, for I am

Merely just a vessel for in

Which it to travel throughout time.

(c) 2003 A Riddle