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The Morning
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Ida
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1
I know that I'm not a poet
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because I get too bored with the words.
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And all I can see is the wasted time
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and there's no sublime
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like the small of your back;
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the base of your spine.
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
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I know that you couldn't listen to that song.
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It froze you right there where you stood.
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We carried the weight of this love for so long;
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Flew down the hill side,
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sand in our hand.
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The sun was upon us
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as we fell through the air.
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
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After the boards and the nails had their way
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and all of the saints were put to shame,
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all I could see was the wasted breath;
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the reality of betrayal,
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how we lied to each other,
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but mostly to ourselves.
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
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All I can see is the morning coming back
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and making the world whole again.
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The hopefulness of another chance,
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to not go wander or settle for less
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and holding the miracle
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in the palm of your hand,
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to witness a beginning
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you can almost understand.
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What was it?
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What was it?
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
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What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
38
What was it?
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What was it?
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