we sweat the small stuff and get upset
ready to deflect what we don't expect
storms spread and we get so wet
bad weather that we'd rather forget

we preset our heads to reject
whatever we don't see as correct
we've all bled and shed tears of regret
it's our necks that we try to protect

when letting two hearts connect
reverence has the better effect
it's the common threads that we neglect
instead of accepting we choose to except

Gone is the freedom
Collapsed is the passion that was load bearing
Our hopes lie in groves, past knowledge.
Waiting upon dying breath if Despair is to die.
And what remains for us who remain?
Are we the useless tea dregs waiting for flames?
Has everything good been stripped away aginst our choosing?
If so, do we allow ourselves to drown?
Righteousness is as a static charge - building until someone is shocked.
Are you jolted awake?
Will you be my monster, assembled from the legs and arms of myriad saints?
Question upon question... does it derail you, or embolden you?
They will find you without regard for your privacy.
Even in the wake of your denial, they will test you.
Are you who you think you are?
If you are not, then I will define you.
You are weary. Confused. Searching.
Much as any beast in the wild, you hunger incessantly and no one and nothing has the fill you seek.
Then, are you not the living dead?
A body that still ticks and talks, but, dear me, no soul, have you?
We are on a quest to reclaim such forgotten things.
In the depths of darkness, a darkness nestled in the heart of mystery and not really a darkness at all, desire whispers.
All you must do is whisper back.

Theft I try to contemplate.
What is it that lingers,
On finger tips,
On stranger's lips.
What is mine, tell me when?

I shake the tingling weight.
Why is it, that desire,
On silver trinkets,
On breast couplets.
Hath lead me lost. In vain?

Who had it first? What god.
When is mine forever,
On eve of death,
On ****** unknown.
Who? That pleasure is beneath you.

If I could ever see,
a woman that personifies,
the symphony of this bliss,
I would cry,
and feel no shame from it.

If she spoke,
with the restraint-ed passion and grace
in the tune of my emotion;
I dare say I would be lulled into a dream,
the romance of which,
I could never hope to realistically pursue...

solely engrossed, slow to emotions
prone to be a soul that is broken
lowly focus, frozen devotion
vocal notions erode when unspoken

(doing fine, i lie with a smile
while i fight my own quiet trial
i clear my head, i'm alright for a while
but
a mind that is clear is a mind in denial)

goal, avoidance of a throat opened
my vocal notions will go unspoken
choking on the voices stolen
prone to be a soul that is broken