Whatever imperfect things We could possibly share They will not compare So long as I have And hold fast to the hope Of what perfectly could never be S O M E T H I N G
Why is it so hard for me? To imagine what I can be To hope upon another day But also stumbling pointlessly My soul dissipating like wisps of smoke Enchanted clouds alive elope Maybe is this something of a joke
(Written by two friends and myself, just one line at a time)
Wit is only as valuable as the appropriateness of mind which can begin to be, and thought of when For want of all moxie For the stress of all scholars Implied
Finding your memory Lodged deep like a bullet wound And in reaching past ribs, I heal And turned out your used-to-be onto the street And now only its recollection collects And makes me money
This morning I Awoke To a field of snow Falling slowly as the sunset Somehow More radiantly than the dawn And I In the seeing all of this Suddenly With the sleep still in my eyes Remembered That I was free And that the snow born wisps Which hold no name Were also me