Who am I if I do not write songs?
To what tribe do these myriad molecules belong?
When words do not come, symbiotically,
With melody for months and months
When a year's entirety stretches out indulgently
A carcass of defeat gesticulating "goddess I am lost"
It makes no difference who is cheering on
From the sidelines, offering assurances
All that matters in these moments of water-treading
Fatigue-wrestling (insomnia's faucet ever on)
Is that the spirit is struggling and in these moments
One must turn inward like a red rose at night
Replenishing the only way angels offer how
By bearing witness to the here and now
So, with regret and rebirth in equal measure
I denounce useless impatience in favor
Of useful irreverence which for now equals truth's expanse
Inevitable kiddush hailing self's immeasurable second chance
