Floating between heaven and hell,
In the middle of an ocean I've made for myself
I keep feeling so alone,
But that everyone is watching me,
That someone put me on the earth to study my tendencies.
To take me away if I’m not my best,
To teach me a lesson in the art of my death.


Is everything a sign?
Yeah.
And I'll feel when it's about to go wrong.
Like I didn't die in that accident because I bought those kids soda after prom.
And I won't die on the anniversary either,
Because on Friday I went to the club,
And I ran into that lady and thanked her for when she gave me a ride from the pub.


It's like I'm racing the clock and making excuses to be kind,
Because I feel like I have to, in order to survive.
To be polite?
No.
I don't care to be kind,
Well, I do, but I’m also scared I'm going to die.


Prematurely, way too early,
I didn't get to travel or see the world.
Maybe before I hop the plane I'll donate money to a local charity.
So I can have some peace of mind when I'm leaving the states,
That I'm not leaving the world yet,
That I'm in good grace.


Paranoid?
Yeah.
Yeah I'd say so.
But how many second chances until karma lets you go?

These waters caressed
a thousand dead bodies.

Young and old men,
mothers, their children.

The water listened,
it heard their
submerged howls,

Slowly
growing drunk
of their brittle
little-souls.

I used the wind alone
Just me in my boat
And savouring every second
Of solitude,
Every ounce of effort to
Master the elements,

Then you came and suddenly
I was unfaithful to my solitude
And unfaithful to the wind,
I savoured the sight and sound
Of you as crew and sense
Of shared endeavour,

But sharing did not last
And you are no more my crew
In any sense at all,
And sail was spoiled by you
Not there nor was mine own
Company sufficient,

But the wind was kind,
The wind saw,
The wind understood.
The wind was loyal to my heart,
And the wind - the wind
Was waiting

I am my mother's daughter,
counting coins, making piles
of nickels and dimes
we think in green, adorned
paper. Made out of trees
whose roots are planted into
our hearts, as crucial
as the valves, veins
and arteries of our ancestors.
I do not remember ever
shedding a single leave,
yet autumn comes to us
all, diseased and old,
young and healthy,
we are two ends of a
spectrum that collapses
at the sheer mass of
miracles it births,
Oak, silver birch, willow
ash... we are two women,
making ends meet, feeding
our men before ourselves.
We do not feel the weight
of wealth, saving every cent,
but our hearts are full and
their strings can be pulled
as tightly as our purses