The spoken word in harsh contrast
Feels like silk against the cold asphalt.

The warm recollections of a summer’s past
Casts a cold shadow at autumn’s feet.

Is it anger or fear which finds itself
At the moment of universal truth?

To be one with the spoken word
Is to feel the vibration of meaning.

I was once to be reborn in the eyes of the world
Only to realize that to be born is to have been dead.

We are dead before we see
And we are born before we understand.

To enemies of friends and friends to enemies
I cast my shout across the universe.

Bryan Los 09.03.09