We find the easy way.
Up, down, around, sloshing through the thick -
we untangle, climb and conquer.

Still, pain is mind’s mortality,
crinkling hope like paper -
each fiber breaking cleanly in the fold.

Sing pain again;
of women, drugs and alcohol,
of faint stale dawns.

Your eyes paint me -
a figurine on a step,
breathing fog.

My lips steam.
I watch my breath -
quietly swallowed by night.

I stare into the light,
farther along this path,
and wonder if we’ll ever meet.

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth supprest.

But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:

Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.

- William Shakespeare