If you could truly say
only the things which matter,
what would those things be?
How would you gather those thoughts
into your mind, grasp them with your hands,
speak of things which are true,
which hold you up with the sound
and the sustenance of that thing
you always go back to even in your most
insecure, unkowing moment?
So many days and nights, we live
very much unexposed, only showing
what does neither damage nor
pleasure too much, then one day
we break and reveal only to expose
what we have accepted as our
incorrectable weaknesses which weapons
of words, deeds, silences
seek to encapsulate?
We begin once again to explore
what our deeds, words hide, seeking
some answer to the questions that others ask
over and once again, til
we lapse into dreams, if only
our truths were also reservoirs of hope,
boundless life flowing from what we know to be
eternal, the powers of the sun,
all the reflections in the sky of our once grand
enterprise, not escaping the sheer,
unending, blanketless tide
of our delight
in our endless glowing
of the eyes.