Monday, February 07, 2005
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind
Even Marilyn Manson on a Monday morning cannot shut out the sight of solemn, sad faces looking up at you in the morning train. Eyes old before time, whispers for voices, shoulders drooping with the weight of the morning, no sweet dreams to bring a smile to pursed lips. Childhood stained by the juices of life, begging to be set free.