paradox...
This here, in my hand, is sacrifice
the copper flavour of risk, the aftertaste of our selfish medicine,
coursing through the choke of the moment
this moment, this time
break away from all your urges, quiet that inner rage exploding; don't lie
sit with me, look in my hand and tell me what you find.
Here's what I know: we're given nothing
unless we give in a little first, and this day is only
what we commit to at its birth, and I
will never say the words
not amid this confusion, among this seclusion I've sentenced myself to
I'm no savior, and when I hold the lens up, I fear only for you.
In the mirror, now, I interpret these deranged things
Third-guessing each second your hand reaches for me
for now, I extend nowhere, and see no other need to reach
I could have trusted you forever
but the questions now come with me, and if, or when I'll ever
lend myself over enough to you, or find you in another.
I may never find you in another.
How can such fear and consolation exist simultaneously?
You want trust, you want loyalty; you know what you need
Here I sit, your wayward wind, inconsistent and unleashed
and how does that fare, day to day, there but not seen?
from this, you seek decision?
you look this way for comfort and relief?
you want from me an admission to your own dream?
This page is my final voice, it's all I can give now
such a small token, for believing in me, this unspoken vow
for looking in this hand for the future and
finding nothing that was missing
but you're strong, and I believe time may not heal all
but it never lets us down in moving along.
As we join here, analyzing this journey
with certainty, I can determine there was no other path
no other remedy for the disease of this day
no quick fix, no supplement for this wrath.
Just my open hand, my open heart,
An open life, in this closed space.
posted by Ian Rowley @ 12:45 PM
3 comments
