What is it to exist within a space defined by the tension of waiting?
What focal point do you find and call yours when courage lingers too long at the feet of last years collapse?
Are the colors that paint the sounds of contentment held only for a select few or do they drip upon any who seek to test them with brushes of their own?
Is hope true if it's more than blindly believing that the continual underlying sadness must eventually lead into a more authentic state of happiness?
At what point will I no longer feel as if I only tarry for another day longing for the ache to be eased?
Tell me, are the edges of the distant reality harsher than the worst of my dreams?
I own far more questions than answers; ruining my chances with stillness and the pursuit of a quiet mind. Thoughts run wild and stir the dust settled on blurry consciousness, yet my heart is colder than I recall it ever being before.
I siphon warmth from the beautifully unsuspecting while dressed in mirrors meant to convince them that they're receiving what they've been giving. I betray my own love and its beating heart with every moment of hiding behind my fear that beauty might never look my way nor utter my name.
I beg you, do not withhold your disgust! Please make me try my own patience... My depravity's deception I, above all, silently abhor.
But I am afraid of closed doors and even more so of the forgotten memories that might live behind them.
I am afraid of the predicted letdown that plagues the excitement within the unknown, but more than that I fear the disappointment's propensity to thicken the walls I've been tearing at for years.
I am afraid that my waiting may be ever prolonged by tomorrows discovery and yesterdays truths.
I am afraid that I will never change and that my dreams will remain the same and never touch my reality.
I hope to make a mockery of these fears... After all, what are fears but mere shadows that must flee at dawns light?
For that, I'll wait as long as it takes.
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