I’ve never resorted to preventive strife, but then I’ve never wondered about what’s to become of me in the night and how I’ll find a way to part the stars to make my way to you.

I never thought I’d only speak this language to secret listeners in the back alleys of time, that half of my life could be spent dancing like a mysterious pagan in the dark.

And they laugh about the why and cast my heart to the skies over glowing continents of insomnia; just try to weave a way through all of the hiding and the knowing sighs to where it all really pulses bright,  a place that shines and is only systematic on the other side of what they’re all thinking.

Shouldn’t I have the right to airy obsession in my own good time, the sweet sugarspeak rhyme of lust and loveliness, should I be losing the kingdom of moments each time I open my eyes and see the sharp morning fright of what I dare to hide?