sometimes I wish I was a stone on the shores of time, so that when in came the tides I'd be immune to its change, able to write my own metrics and rhymes. how much wonder it must be to sing one's own tune, to listen to the waves washing away but with no drowning gurgles of one's own to accompany the fray.
of my most contented moments, when she sat on that couch, beaming as bright as a moon, assured that love would prevail, when all I could do is feel pain, at being not ready for her sail. winds of fate blew her away, toward a more sturdy ship, of this I could never complain, but only take stock, of a heart slowly maimed. it was never a sudden shatter, nor a bladed knife in dark, nor a hammer's thud in angst, but a slow and precious diamond's dust in scatter, as I knew not what I'd lost till long after, and on me dawned the fullest cost.
all I'd ever sought, all I'll ever really seek, is a heart to hold in hand, a bosom to find in shelter, when tides decide to rise, and currents begin to seethe. what price I'd since paid in past, makes me think I cannot risk all my chips, or fear losing to the house all I now have. as the house always wins, and the fools always lose, there's only mere shadows left of doubt, to cast on which path I'll slowly choose. a jester not in costume, I shall run and run, until with knells my pulse rings in tune, waiting for fate's scythe, to at last draw its due.
