If I find sleep before sunrise, it's a good night.
If I smile at the thought of you
directed plaintively at the moon,
then at least I'll have smiled once;
and if my heart breaks at my failure,
and I don't blame economy,
then I've defeated self-pity for another day.
I live with the shape of my mouth,
the off-set, colorless well of my eyes,
and the scars of forgotten lessons.
I've not the memory of what beauty I've found,
but I know I've not named it my own
Possession of such value is for others,
for I've no heart to keep it to myself,
nor room in my heart to let others borrow.
I've not taken what I might from my place here,
but kept off some pleasures for tomorrow.
Such is the root of my hope,
no matter how poorly seeded in reality.
Bearing on the unreal is so far relative anyway,
perspective holding truth in its teeth,
such a fragile commodity to try and keep,
that which time renders perishable
to the rough handling of days
and the cruel compromises of the night.
If I wake before the sunset,
then the day was not a waste.
And if my hands don't overtake my body
to ease me into lonely dreams,
then my tarnished intentions allow
for a chaste slumber of my need.
I live with the guilt of my generation,
the regret born of seperation,
and the lessons to be learned of scars.
I've not the beauty of what memories I've found,
for appreciation of all that's past
is a burden my heart will not allow.
And there is no room in my heart for debts
on which love looks to collect.
I'm not one to take of what I am not deserving,
so the world takes of me instead.
And my hands in your place
wait for validation.

02/04/2002

Posted on 02/04/2002
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