Tell Me

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.