We are all partially unknown,
Partly unexplored and each to each some of our roads are untravelled,
Thickets untouched but only by ones self,
A wind blows through our blood- a wind that only pirouettes through ones hair.
Fields of golden grass which only dance in each of us.
Only the sky truly knows us,
The air that we breathe,
The sounds which play around us.
The fullness knows us,
The chipped paint on the wall which keeps us-
Yet for some it is the nothingness which truly knows them.
The emptiness.
Yet we are all partly unknown and that is beauty.
