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I know that I'm not a poet |
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because I get too bored with the words. |
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And all I can see is the wasted time |
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and there's no sublime |
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like the small of your back; |
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the base of your spine. |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
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I know that you couldn't listen to that song. |
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It froze you right there where you stood. |
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We carried the weight of this love for so long; |
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Flew down the hill side, |
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sand in our hand. |
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The sun was upon us |
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as we fell through the air. |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
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After the boards and the nails had their way |
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and all of the saints were put to shame, |
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all I could see was the wasted breath; |
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the reality of betrayal, |
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how we lied to each other, |
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but mostly to ourselves. |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
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All I can see is the morning coming back |
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and making the world whole again. |
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The hopefulness of another chance, |
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to not go wander or settle for less |
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and holding the miracle |
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in the palm of your hand, |
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to witness a beginning |
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you can almost understand. |
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What was it? |
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What was it? |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again? |
|
What was it? |
|
What was it? |
