II

If only twinklingly,
There's a selfish part of part that doesn't want to let go.
Maybe it was meant to be shared, then was it intended to be received?

"Oh, I'm here," it remains
maybe like a giant shadow,
your fields yet unpainted, a sort of faux majesty.

In that tar sea routine,
Brush strokes open the box,
inside--nothing,

In the tar sea routine,
Brush strokes can open the box,
inside--nothing.

And knowing it's nothing,
maybe we can synchronize
our disillusioned hearts, if it seems momentarily bearable,
grant me the grace to discriminate, while my self seeps like sand
who I am today, who I am today brush strokes can open that box
(who I am today,) inside--nothing.
If I cannot find love, but if I can just protect something
Oh, if I cannot find love, if I could just protect something,
my heart would soar.