One.
There is always one.
I wanted to put down my pens.
Sell my politics.
And sheath my interest.
To become satisfied.
To live for yourself, not selfishly.
Not for tomorrow’s children
But your own.
Not the painting and writings and rebellions.
But your children.
For her in her perfection of heart and concern.
Discovering the ideal.
Donning the blue collar.
And feeling forever.
Forever her.
Picking where you sit.
A van.
Sunday glimpses.
A park.
You in concern now will never match which
Would
, Could
,would
Could have, but will not
Be.
We would have had daughters.
Of flesh
And not revolution.
With violins.
Violins and laughter.
We would have felt.
And felt more.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 1:37 AM UTC
One.
There is always one.
I wanted to put down my pens.
Sell my politics.
And sheath my interest.
To become satisfied.
To live for yourself, not selfishly.
Not for tomorrow’s children
But your own.
Not the painting and writings and rebellions.
But your children.
For her in her perfection of heart and concern.
Discovering the ideal.
Donning the blue collar.
And feeling forever.
Forever her.
Picking where you sit.
A van.
Sunday glimpses.
A park.
You in concern now will never match which
Would
, Could
,would
Could have, but will not
Be.
We would have had daughters.
Of flesh
And not revolution.
With violins.
Violins and laughter.
We would have felt.
And felt more.