on a certain day,
'i'm finding something good'
it's just the same day
same uncertain day,
and i'm never any good.
and, oh, the dark night, calling my name,
and i just want to feel
and feel again.
life grabs me by the arm and says,
these are your days, just live them.
but they're not mine, can not be mine;
have I earned them?
when you tell me i'm your friend,
what choice do i have,
what choice did i ever have,
where is my agreeal or consent given?
it's not a question of wrong or right,
what goes on here,
and to tell me that it is
with eyes of gold they watched each other,
with stoic silken curtains drawn.
the wash of breathe across her body
the tip of marble in his palm.
with gilded crests he picked her flowers,
petals captured on the floor.
she took of him acute dictation
while time passed like lapping on a shore.
where were the answers tonight,
where stilllife scenes replayed?
and what was good and what was evil,
when love and passion so finite laid?
what is distraction, that it drives us on,
and acceptance that is should both fuel and quell
and this is desire, to create love,
in a place where love yearns to be created;
which is every place.
when i say i deprive myself,
the paradox of knowing and understanding
and loving and acting and tasting and
holding back and
giving in and
feeling something again,
what i mean is that i yearn to be good.
and to do what is good,
which is to love.
i stood up in the white robe and made my plea
and evil washed in front of me,
and i was marked,
and i was told one thing, and then the other,
and both were true and both were wrong, and
contentment lay in searching for
a state of rest can only be obtained by acting and
this is paradox,
and this is love.