There is an ideal bench under the sign at the end of my street
It seems a peaceful spot, with its deep color and curve
As I pass it daily, I imagine sitting there, lost in thought
About who has wronged me, and how I'd hurt them back
About how the snow of my youth has lost its shape to ice
About how I now find benches at the end of streets to be ideal
But most of all, I imagine sitting there, public made private
The ability to transform the space I occupy into my own
Free of the tectonic worry that I should not be in this place
There is an ideal bench under the sign at the end of my street
It seems a peaceful spot, with its deep color and curve
I will sit there in a day to come, and in peace, observe

Here, the frozen moment, a most precious frame of mind
That in the greatest beauty, and in the finest art
Lies the hidden truth of man, the hardest there's to find
Belonging begins in the bravery to restart

When comes the chance to serve in grace
And complacency shows it's familiar face
The battle begins, the naturally selfish man
I am busy, I am tired, and, I have other plans
Theres but a single thing to think to win
Remember, there is still room in the inn
Often waves the tides and times of life
To wade and wait through seasons of strife
For the mercy of the passerby to see
Today it is you, and tomorrow it is me

As I stand in the shower, shampoo in my hand, I think to myself. If Life and Death were people, would they be friends, enemies, or lovers?

For surely they must be acquainted, having both been present in the first touch of the last second space had to be alone.

Or perhaps it is that same proximity which stills the air between what is given and what must, eventually, be taken back.

Even yet, they may find romance in the reality that impermanence and beauty share the same fleeting tide.

And as I stand in the shower, shampoo in my hand, I realize they are but one movement of the same force which removes and renews.

I feel this first touch somewhere in my head and shoulders.

                       ʙᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ
                       ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴇʟꜱᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴅᴏ
                       ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʏᴏɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ
                       ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇꜱᴛᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇꜰʀᴏᴍ
                       ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ
                       ʙᴜᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ

Wisdom in water
Unceasing and unbothered
By such little things

Wood older than me
How am I to burn the tree
That did bring me here?

Sponge moss clings to rock
A young jungle to itself
It is here for now