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Sunday afternoon
Window pane, air glides
Like slow humming planes
A life like the end of summer
A face like cut grass
Laid out in the sun to bake
Face down in a fishpond
Stones and bullets
in both of my hands
I was only dreaming
That things would ever be
Any different
It was only a dream of life
Of what it might have been
If I hadnt died that day
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"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing
hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain
without being uncovered."
The Gospel of Thomas
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