Pushing back my hair somehow clears
Things up for me.
My bangs hardly graces my eyelashes
But they still are close too much.

And when I pull them back
My fingers touch my scalp,
And my brain seems to be stroked,
Comforted.
The factory of human mind
Often forgets to rest,
But my fingers take pity.
They weep their grace on my skin
Through the roots,
They pray their tears for my wellness.

My mind closes its eyes
And breathes a rare breath.
It turns its chin up and smiles
A small smile,
Knowing that friendly hand is somewhere
Close above.

He then can rest softly
In the clouds of existence
Until the bangs fall again
And I know I must work.