Consequences of life.

Sometimes I think we kill ourselves
when the flame of passion flickers.
Why the desperation when our lives
are too short to enjoy, and too long
to live with that?

Is all happiness a delusion?
Our only recourse is to spread ourselves.
Thin crepes of love, nobody gets enough.
On our dead hearts we heap more promises.

Sometimes I see the spark of joy in your eyes,
and I’m sure it’s true. But your dreams
bring you all that I can’t make real.
And so another piece of me melts away.

Will there be anything left of me?
When the time comes for us to see,
face-to-face what we’ve done.
Will I cry, will I have hope anymore?
Or will it be a great life lived?

The burnt and wilted ache of my heart,
hard to feel anything at all.
Don’t want to, even if I could.

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