For what better could it be
than to see beyond the colors,
past the horizon itself,
yet still be unable to be.
Free from the strings
called destiny and fate,
tangled and overlooking
love, lust, and regret,
yet never quite able
to see your smile soon after.
This isn’t love,
you see,
for I can freely choose
whether I should, or shouldn’t, be.
No better judge than tomorrow,
and a restless sleep,
turning and turning over
a cold, comfy bed
beneath the folds of a warm blanket.
Let me not see—
only let me sleep.
I am not in love,
yet still
be in love without meaning
to be unloved.
Toss aside the query;
this is only a short fairy tale.
There is no meaning in
this verse, nor in what
it reflects—overlooking
these pages of crumbled
letters, joined together
by the unseen hands
of the puppeteer,
the master playwright,
and the songwriter without a voice.
The god of the machine
moves its hands to signal tears.
The light will go out
as the curtain rolls
down the cheeks of eternity.
The unapplause of the blind
and the cheering of the deaf
will resonate with the mute.
We are all invalid.
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