It seems I'm forced to share the world,

despite these grey dream rebellions--

when I wake up to an empty world--

no, no. They're still here, all still here.

And further still I find

we share a common nature,

the whole world and me.

In my quiet superstitions

and hesitant assumptions--

my thoughts that made me alone,

but in fact, made us alone,

were held universally--

I don't like it.

My nature, I find, is human,

and my thoughts are old and worn;

my conclusions have been fondled and held

like roller coaster hand rails,

filthy with humanity

when they didn't wash their hands.

These are the things that all men know,

that I'm damned into knowing,

the pretouched secrets that all people share,

that we're all afraid to know.

And so, I walk alone

down a prepaved path,

and maybe touch a young, yellow flower

virgin to men's hands--

I give it to you,

and it can be our secret

to hide from the world.