i'd like to pretend that the stars
had something to do with us;
that we were born from sparks,
written in stone, or
whispered amongst by angels.
and perhaps we were, but
our love will always be by our
own design,
we built our walls and then we
carved our names into trees.

what's on the other side?
like a mirror,
i look and i see my world.
what's between the glass?
can i go through?
can i leave?
for a day,
a second,
a minute?
can i pick up,
walk away
and never look back.

like stairs,
it's up or down.
i teeter on the middle,
hand on the rail,
one foot in the air.
the stone steps
are
steep and they go high;
my legs ache and i can't
see the top.
letting go,
do i climb or do i
go down?

life isn't a poem;
you don't choose to
stop
or start or
pick up where you left.
we do not hold the remote
or the pen
or the rope.
we hold on and we travel
with the wind.

in the light of life,
we hold hands
and we
close our eyes
and we
feel the blade
of the reaper ;
and we
say
"goodbye."

why is it so hard to be happy?
we look at the ashes of our triumphs
and then smell the gasoline on our hands
and realise we were the ones with the matches
and we were the ones that tied
cinder blocks to our legs
and decided to go swimming.
why do we have to look at the cemetery,
read each name on the stones,
just to realise we're holding shovels.
no matter how warm it gets,
the nights are always the coldest-
we're sunshine by day and the moon by night,
hiding our tears behind the dark veil of fabricated facades.

from sunrise to sunset,
we dance between each regret.
tired eyes and loveless gleams,
our love was once a flowing stream;
now it's dried up, cold and bare
the love we had is no longer there.