To own a selfish and reckless will,
It is monstrous and a tyrant over me still,
It holds the hand of my ambition when I meet my shy dreams,
And hands me a cup of cowardice sourced from apathy's streams.

Passion has a seat at the banqueting table,
It wants to be more than friends with unstable,
A chaotic spiral of emotions has awoken,
But time wears the crown and I think time has spoken.

Last night's sombre sky was hiding the moon in the corner of an ever-longing eye,
Mysteries were fooled by honesty's mask,
This also happened by day, it was not just night's task.

Oh sovereign sky, you are more generous tonight,
Ostentatious and proud, you adorn my mind's walls,
Pouring me a cup of darkness delight, pain bows its head and sorrow stalls.

My eyes are too full, they are open and flooding,
Thank you, oh night and your sky's freckled face,
Your reminder of life has heads bowed and legs running, but I am here and in my place.

Oh, if I could I sleep forever on a daydream's cloudy cushion,
I'm cowering again from the thrilling thunder of life's perpetual percussion,
Oh, if I could rest of an evening by the warmth of your dear smile,
No need to feel the terror of time, time would go out for a while.

Secret and senile condition,
It obeys that old self-righteous act of contrition,
Tentative and taciturn me,
Longing only for my fleeting thoughts to be free.

Obscure and opulent friend,
You remind me of life and a journey's end,
Wonderful and whimsical you,
You're the best I have known, the best shade of blue.

Unknown and unarmed us,
How could it be that we are walking thus?
Crippled and unstable we,
Blessed be the path that did heed our pace's plea.

Loneliness, you, the great misunderstood privilege,
You, oh terrible and gut-wrenching luxury,
To face that expansive, internal abyss,
And to know myself, wholly,
In deepest despair and boldest bliss.

Slow motion memory, you intricate skill,
Towering and dangerous like waves of wine's sea,
Decanting your motion and learning to savour,
Sweet moments of wonder, drunken and divine,
Show me myself in my buried behaviour.

Oh this grey prison of our waking eyes,
It is colder than our long-lived and taciturn tides,
The moon smiles, beaming, upon our wavering way,
Knowing that our fervent sun will soon set fire to our new day.

This stranger pain and that neighbour sorrow,
They are jealous of the colours we are saving for tomorrow,
To blot them with night's ink is their insidious intent,
Let us hold our precious currency of colours, even until our last breath is spent.

The advent of our springtime seems as unlikely as our salvation,
Perhaps our darker clouds will begin to cry for our hydration,
Those tears would greet that arid soil like the dew drops greet the morn,
And from the dearest droplets fall, our spring is here, our spring is born.

Dust, just dust, with a sad or smiling face,
That successful dust who learned to mimic life's pace,
The dust on the outside is sleeping rough and is alone,
While the dust seen through the window has a family and a home.

Sometimes this dust can create and conjure beauty,
And other times it will destroy in the name of fear or duty,
I know some dust who keeps their grace hidden under floorboards,
I know some other dust who sings out their grace with compassionate chords.

I have seen a swirling dust who keeps in perfect time with the breeze,
I have also seen a static dust who refused nature's offering of ease,
Often I see dust succumb to time's hypnosis and monotony,
But occasionally, I see dust be brave and break the silence with a symphony.

Dust, just dust, it is the beginning of me,
From dust were you made and it is our actuality,
The wonder of the world is at the mercy of this fine matter,
We are walking, breathing, dancing dust, we'll paint the glass and watch it shatter.