The temptation is to stay. To linger a little longer in this semblance of youth, dancing in a moment stuck in time.
To stagnate is to drink the dull wine of confusion that numbs your senses and leaves your mind reeling, directionless, spinning spinning, purposeless, listless, restless.
From where would this clarity be borne? What is its method, this clear sight? At each crossing we’re born and born again, lost in placenta, tearing for truth.
Each day eternity imposes itself on my solace, then leaves me hanging without taking root.
To stagnate is to drink the dull wine of confusion that numbs your senses and leaves your mind reeling, directionless, spinning spinning, purposeless, listless, restless.
From where would this clarity be borne? What is its method, this clear sight? At each crossing we’re born and born again, lost in placenta, tearing for truth.
Each day eternity imposes itself on my solace, then leaves me hanging without taking root.
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