What is life but the dreams that come between us:
Desires undone, trust shattered into sprinklings and shards,
The pain of glass grinding in the foot to remind us that we must wake?
Wanting is the worst part, of passing ones days
Contemplative of deeds, of passions, of moments lost,
Innocence mislaid, opportunity missed.
If I live a thousand years I could never understand it:
Transition between guile and purity,
And how I could softly embrace both, possibly
Intermingle the two like streamers in the sky.
The knot is all I am left with, the tangles of thread
Like nooses,
And all that I love hangs there:
Not quite heaven, not quite hell,
But suspended in an impossible balance.
Perhaps if I ever choose to look back,
And possess wisdom instead of this wealth, I might see
That the obvious solution is to cut,
Somewhere a wound must be made and the entanglements fall.
I could be free of lies, I could make peace,
I could live a thousand years and love them all.
He would understand, He would forgive, He would judge me
Innocent.