why are thou ashamed of him

what is hidden has a motive The sun decides when the world should breathe. When the hair hides beneath a cap, it bows not to style, but to shame or disbelief in its own glory. The food may sing praises to the fire, but the pot burns in silence, bearing scars no tongue remembers. My words are not for all, but for the chosen few bleeding from veins unseen, carved in chambers the microscope dares not search. Legend Chris