Sometimes there is relief
in the sanity of a routine
that has never been done.
And the glee of a note
that's never been sung
And the rhythm of my steps
as we design new paths
These are the aspects of the craft
Not that I was a man of trade
or knew true sweat
or the value of grain
I only am
what I cannot be
As what I see
Is out of reach
Bound to a destiny
that had little fate
And ate what's left of hope
if there was ever any.
Why should I fuel a drive
that isn't moved
or covers any miles ?
And how can I keep a smile
with a face
that wasn't mine ?
But every flame has its time
And every rose has their season
they bud and bloom then
bend to wilt
to worship the ground
w
ithout a reason
But why point out the beauty
of beautiful things?
And act like the landscape
doesn't have a unique tinge
and it's own role.
For how would a rose stand out
without the blur of the weeds
And how would the horizon's waters look
without a gesture of the breeze
What's the purpose of a Full moon
to lack the stars reflection in the lake
And you can't say
you'd ever have winter
without the art of a snow flake.
