In the darkest hours, which is always, whether sun, or nighttime, or rain,
I toss and turn in my bed, through my days, in my brain;
For those of us who struggle to express
a single sentiment
without jokes or double meanings or
A lifetime worth of sadness in a pack on our backs
Always hunting for that one true sentence or word…
Try to write it down, find it in the keys, strike the right note,
Try to show it in a perfect shuffle step or grand jete
Or something not muddled in French, one sharp angle,
that bends to Fate.
Well, what I mean to say…
If I crumple it all and light it on fire
Would it be bright enough for you to see?
Would it purify the words and notes and tones of my voice,
Or the sharp movements that bend and wilt with a single word,
An hour of your time, the spell of lifted darkness —
These temporary things.