If I could show you
the deceit
that slowly seeps through the cracks
of your anticipation,
then I would
But that is up to time
The wait proves to be more promising
than its very end
when the standards are marked by your desire,
stained with the fickleness you stand on
If I could show you the firmness of the earth
as you wait for rain that never comes,
flowers that can’t spring,
birds that have found someplace else to sing,
then I would
But that is up to your fall
from the tightrope you’ve stretched
from one season to the next
in an effort to shun the space between them
If I could show you that the silence preceding every note
is what makes the song you tremble to hear,
then I would
But that is up to the gaps you neglect
Their stillness steadily turns into the bottomless hunger
that will swallow you whole
before you can see that the music
has been playing all along
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