On the hill The wind whispering leaves laughing Children playing unattended, un afraid. her fingers through my thick black hair opening the wall of folicles to let in the air my heated scalp The drum circle in a crescent shape field to the beat of many penetrates my sheild I have become one The rising moon lends light into the stream where even now the children scream in delight and play while the fire dancers slay the darkness and I have become a slave to my own in my head to the nothing And she has still the beauty that is preceeded by no one and she smiles She tells me she has not seen me this happy and free in ages and I smile in return with my head on her lap And I sleep knowing I have become
