|December 29th, 2008|
Once you know the shape of the passage, and just how rough the road,
You’d think that it would be easier, but it’s still so hard to go.
We always have to part at the doorway, as I put on my shoes;
You give me a jacket and that wistful smile, and say “Careful out there, silly goose.”
Maybe the issue is the things that I can see that are left behind;
There are parts of me you’re keeping close, and parts of me lost to time.
There are boxes full of our old aspirations, and that one there holds our youth,
There’s crazy music coming from that one — and that one used to have truth.
When there are bridges to cross that sway in the wind, and adventure at every turn,
Wild jungles full of mystery and so many new things to learn,
I always mention that you could come, but you just always shake your head:
“Too much to do here at home, someone has to make the bed…”
But do these shelves hold all of the meaning?
If the dust is blown off, can we fly with the sun?
Or do these these pages sit here, quiet,
until all of the sun setting is done?
I try to remember to bring back a gift, from all those foreign climes
But somehow most of them are dust, even if I get them home in time.
“I swear, this was gold, that was precious diamond, and this one here was fragrant wine…”
But you brush them aside with relief in your eyes, and choose instead to hold me tight.
You say you know the shape of the passage, and just how rough the road.
You act like it should be easy for you now, but it’s still so hard to let go.