i can never write the song that suits this season
the wonder,
the wavering,
the exaltation i can never become
ten thousand sounds spread thin are just too dense
my voice not strong enough to carry them
so i paint the face that haunts me
the pensive wrinkle,
the grin gone soft,
the smile i could never pull off
half a million brush strokes criss-cross through the divide
these fingers tire
lack the delicate touch for the details

am i flying now
or just rushing toward the surface
hoping to sprout feathers before i hit