She thinks we’re made of magic but I know we’re made of flesh and when that flesh has turned to ash I hope whatever’s left won’t resemble this poor creature with his sorry heart and bones and I hope that what remains will have the strength to make it home. She thinks that love’s a reason, she thinks that love’s a cure; I think love’s an anesthetic – we’re different, me and her. And I hope that we can meet somewhere between her heart and mine and I hope she knows I think she’s fair and sweet and good and kind. Her eyes are full of mercy; her heart is strong and fine. Her body is a temple that I visit all the time. I wish that I could hide in her from all the wind and rain but the best of anesthetics can’t completely kill the pain. The nights are cool and gentle but they turn into the day. The road is strewn with loved ones that I’ve lost along the way and for each loss I’ve suffered I’ve composed a little song and walking down this road I just sing them all day long. She makes me feel alive, all right, she makes me feel alone. She makes me feel adrift at sea, she makes me feel at home. Deep within her silence there’s a word I need to hear. I need to feel the perfect love that casteth out all fear. She thinks that life’s a journey, some kind of holy quest. I think that life’s a battle and a great god-awful mess. But there are shining moments, and when she’s here with me it sometimes seems the battle could just end in victory. - W.S., 2010
Posted on: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 21:15:34 +0000
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