Old notebook man, tell my your humble plans, hidden from the world on a lonely nightstand, lamp awake silently shining hope, buried lines supplying evidence of hope, ink evidence of unseen riches in your head.
Fountain pen sister, write and tell your story and I’ll absorb it in, battling burglars with filthy hands and minds obsessed with catching a glimpse of behind never your face, never your speech, claim you have nothing profound to teach, single finger on their mouths forbidden any outreach.
I want to hear from you both, listen to your sincere posts, we can love each through quiet glances and personal folded notes.
Because I’m standing here too, unknown to those I’m known to, praying oh God I don’t want any fame just have them come to you then you’ll wash away shame, let us find the love we’re searching for, knocking then received at your door, oh we’ve been crying on hardwood floors looking for acceptance.
The lesser light. The lesser light. Still guiding lost people home.
Midnight. Feels right. Quietly bringing people home.