With Glowing Souls and Somber Flesh

This the spring we strum the trout of pain and sing

This the wood-grain where our nerves learn fear

This the tripe the broken tinkle of popular music

This the unenviably meager crucible in a pocket

This the unguided promise to such a silly story

This the regret for second-hand tonguetricksters

This the happy discovery of monumental trifles

This the dance of moments that disobey us

This the demented guitar trolling tuneless wails

This the if of yes the no of well maybe someday

This the unviable lives we invent with metaphor

This the unanswered equations in our eyes

This the end we’ll go back to rewrite someday

This the end we say we may revise one day