A lullaby of criminal authority hidden in ripples on a mirror,
so fierce, protective, and waning by the light of the moon,
takes us home for a time before our feet feel the ground again.
I know you live in notes written on falling autumn leaves.
And I watch my step, trying to keep your ink intact,
so I may know you when you're still and not quietly ill.
What lies beneath rises up to guide our hands and burn us.
Water flees but is never gone, so far as we can see.
Should I bite the apple but once you might know your heart.
Counting fingers took too long, I used the only thing I had.
Ostracized and impatient I knew the future would be bright;
an amber stupor felled the tree guarding a true tomorrow.
We've known too much to know of gated glory.
For what's beyond the door when it rains
is mistaken as something outside.
Taken by hands of dreams and remembered by lonely intentions,
your good lord decreed that I'm not meant for you to keep.
Aim was inconstant and assaulted by stringent whispers.
Trying to delight in somber tones with hateful glints,
the forethought of company decided the light,
shining on nothing left alone to be alright.
A cloudy mistress kissed my lips and I could forget.
I'd travel to a garden with a wonder soon removed
by necessity or love and her desperate grip.
Who speaks to trouble as medicine shall win the day.
And I will worry for a while that I'm dull and gray.
Wish for me and let me wander through your throat.
Those tears are sweet that take us home.
They are the songs of melding hearts,
and soften the ground for us to meet.
