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Published: Sep 2009
I am wanting to save you, before I can hold you.
And I am mad, which for both of us is true;
But my addiction is not brown or white - it is you.
For you express your distress, with artistic disdain;
And you so eloquently allude to your tumultuous pain.
But still, you make me nervous and weary of your plays,
for I am not ignorant of the street corner's ways.
And I am cautious and slow, experienced enough to know,
that the tiger will always kill, for only blood can satisfy its fill.
But I am not a lamb to be sacrificed;
just a man who found his way from a life of vice.
And now that our lives have crossed, mixed-up and lost,
we are found, in these northern, cold-wintered towns.
What could it mean, this life, this dream?
Could that which is broken, ever mend?
Or will seeking out the familiar fix always be the end?
And I could let go, like the river and flow.
My mind a stream, wandering with gleam.
But I could stay; together we may,
make sense of it all, and forever, we fall.