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The Dust Rises

I’ve passed a point or a place that existed only in time
I have remained ordinary in my capabilities
But I’ve observed myself enough to know what is wasteful
And my imagination is the destroyer of all my discretion
Candor forces itself upon my conscience, so silent for so long
I mourn the death of laughter though the flowers remain
Guilt rampages across the plains of my mind, the dust rises
Seen for miles, I approach the place of my eventuality
I must thrive without a visionary experience by day
I cannot come to terms with a contingency for madness
What is it about money that I have it without any interest at all
Perfection in the soul must be the reason; for to fail is to fail
There is no metaphor plain enough to make a life with you
I speak as a common man while my heart writes sonnets
I wonder how it is I could live as a man with only half a mind
Is it my fear that you will never get used to any of it
That my obsessions would be the death of each day
Should we squander them with photographs as we age
Standing next to statues and vineyards we did not plant
Is it that what I want to know about myself cannot be shared
I don’t want to conceal, my secrets are not that interesting
Ask me anything, if it is the truth you want then I will risk it all
Stand before me now even if your conclusion is not to love me
I want to adore you to the point that your ego is exhausted
If that is what you want to live, have you become a statue?
Are you the place I visit so I can tell someone I was there?
Yet the death of discretion resurrects the protection of virtue
Imagine the moment when I would laugh about making love
But you cannot because it means everything to me
Waiting without longing is not the end of romance, only frivolity
What I would say to you if you has never been spoken
Because it was never us together knowing how it could be