I cannot sing
sweet and supple,
A cake of velvet pedals
As you deserve
Know now that this is good
Yes,
You are mine
Yet when we rain,
we turn these clearings bad.
They give no light;
Leave us pale and wanting
Even this is good
Strange, really.
That this be the shape of my birthing.
That same pale,
the taste who bore me;
This wanting,
the color who changed mine eyes
And that is very good
It is no secret
that life doth click thy heels;
That beyond you,
there you set.
Waiting.
Changing the while around you
This you,
She does not know me.
And it is good.
For I,
while pure and true,
stand wrinkled with the pains of my surroundings.
And this is good.
I carry the weight of a child's hopes.
Dashed and scattered frantic,
as though forged in the fires of haste.
And it is good
I ought not caste these down to corners wide,
for they need the love of burden.
And burden turns the hamlet sour
like a fallen sea;
Troubled and in love.
And this is very good
Then, rushing forth,
clinking with fragile delicates;
Lover 'gainst lover.
Ah, so pretty and fair.
Caressing, entranced, thine inner ear.
Love's ribbons draw forth
then back.
Then forth once more.
Then swift winds caress melancholic.
Swirling time;
Smiling smoke.
Finally, we have lost.
And it is good.
