Reason Was For Suckers And Presbyterians.

When You Looked Up To The Sky And Cried 'why?' Sometimes The Sky Shrugged, Yet Other Times It Answered With Warm Assurance Of Linked Hands.

It's Only His Thumb Brushing Slowly Across The Lower Edge Of My Lip, But It's As If Time Slows And The Sweep Of That Thumb Below My Mouth Takes Forever. It Is No Spell That I Know Of, But It Holds Such Magic, I Can Scarcely Breath. He Pulls His Hand Away Fast, Aware Of What He's Done. But His Touch Lingers.

What Frightens You? What Makes The Hair On Your Arms Rise, Your Palms Sweat, The Breath Catch In Your Chest Like A Wild Thing Caged? Is It The Dark? A Fleeting Memory Of A Bedtime Story, Ghosts And Goblins And Witches Hiding In The Shadows? Is It The Way The Wind Picks Up Just Before A Storm, The Hint Of Wet In The Air That Makes You Want To Scurry Home To The Safety Of Your Fire? Or Is It Something Deeper, Something Much More Frightening, A Monster Deep Inside That You've Glimpsed Only In Pieces, The Vast Unknown Of Your Own Soul Where Secrets Gather With A Terrible Power, The Dark Inside?

Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged.

No One Can Steal Our Dream.