We Are The End Of Conflict, But We Are Just Beginning

Not whether my hand fades or stays solid. No, you feel me going out the window slowly, being the cloud or the fog that makes you feel young. From far far away I can see your clear eyes. It feels bearable a moment, this world with you in it. Then the flood: all the gone folks, the great loss, all those graves and empty graves. Right here you put your heart and I wear my little broken face for you, crooked in the morning. I try to hold that bright, that impossible violet butterfly wing, that trilling jade leaf. The silver of your tears rolling for our whole life. These colors can’t measure the distance from us to the sun. But without our star: no hues, no warmth. “Please” is the tenor we magnify, to try and elude the captors we must be. Why are we always jailers? Cages are for opening, schools for peeling theory from dogma. Clocks go around, around for the day. The might and mystery of time versus my voice breaking at that point in the song where emotion takes over. How to master that moment and ride beauty, despite my grinding jaw, despite the heat in your eyes?