Could it be that a sight unseen,
may not have been just what it seemed,
and yet at night I dream my dream.
Oh God have mercy, on what’s unseen.
For how it changes, twist and turns
and if you have loved just how it burns.
The stone cold chill of silence is bliss,
from the shouts of rage I soon won’t miss.
Distorted truths, but not quite lies,
is how the unseen lives and how it hides.
By Michael Coburn
