Youth's Condensation moments in the aristocrazy of so many jungle gyms memory becomes a hypocritoppotomus of gems and how the morning star falls in the wake of minds we are what we are, what we make in naked winds the cone of the soft and the stump of the hard trumpets and harps playing for lumps in our heart going to bed, with a story to tingle to strangled emotions, life's tangle the elusive crayfish in the stream, conscience, a wading was it all a dream? was it a conscious awakening? was our coc-oon so small, that breaking skin brought a tear which tore through our teenage years, rang through our ears? was the moon so big, that we had to conquer it? in a conk did we hear the ocean, did we have to honor it? was the lamb so sweet, that it had to be slaughtered? or was the point to pass on, to relive through our daughter? as we look back... did it ever make sense? til we had opened our minds, was life ever as dense? when we first used the word bitch, did we lose innocense? did we intensify emotion, did our imagination only condense? sometimes, after long servitude, i stare out into space and wonder, what did i deserve? how was it erased?