I write these lines, and seek some sort of rhythm;
There’s clarity in peering through the blur —
For all I’ve ever sought is love and wisdom,
Although I am not sure which I prefer
I look for the connections in our madness,
And seek to plant and reap the fertile ground —
To water it with what I know of sadness,
And share whatever crop I may have found
But life has ways of making us a liar:
Our inconsistency’s an exposé —
And weakness comes, as we grow sick or tire:
But still, we have to say
What we
Can say
