Nerves are roots to explore soul,
Skin is a tool for a ghost to sole,
Love is where reasons disappear,
Air is a substance to whisper 'dear'.

Circuits are shortened, things are sorted
at least for twisted two pairs of hands:
whatever wanted is close and note that
a seaside is nothing but an edge of land.

Postponed travels, wells, water, a maze
reside in silence, not yet in peace.
An electric fence binds a friendly face
with its mortal base so it looks as is.

(c) r.t.