"Sometimes I feel like only a cold still life, that fell down here to lay beside you" - Elliott Smith

Sat together on hill, an aerial for thought,
again hand in hand, despairing once more.
The son of a builder, a working class man;
a daughter of suits, apathetic and rich.
The two clichés that fooled the world
with lines of cunning, and brushstrokes of youth.
On one side the dark, deceptive and scared,
on the other, the light of innocence impaired.
One can handle the real and the thin,
but the other is pleased by the colour in tins.
Both so naïve in their opposite ways,
the healthier balance falls outside their gaze.

Too young to die but stares at the ground,
the son is the bitter and cynical clown
who is gifted by humour that softens the blow
of a mind that travels where others daren't go.
The daughter’s the kindness that he can’t exude,
a light in the dark but in agony too.
She sees her joy in a meaningful bliss
and it kills her to think that it doesn’t exist.

In each other they found an escape,
not from the world or past lovers
but from a terminal ambivalence.

Together they create art, in one form or another
Both together and apart, inspiring each other.
They’ve conquered their demons by figuring out
That the other is miserable and so full of doubt.

07/23/2009

Posted on 07/23/2009
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