We keep on wanting this.
Even reality gives up after a while,
Unable to conform to our thoughts.
Reality, random thief, enters the home,
Never welcome in the poem.
Facts have no idea what they’re looking for.
And it’s hard to exit through another person’s door.
The art of conversation is dead. We complain.
We say nothing. We talk around the stain.
Nature gives up on us, too.
Nature gives sweet flowers to me to give to you,
But winter kills fast.
We want the poem of personality to last,
But it never will—
In every case, to keep talking means you’re an imbecile.
The song must have an end; they all end.
Did you notice this?
A pop song ends, perhaps slowly in a fade,
But it ends. No matter how wild or elaborate its parade.
A symphony ends. The timpani ends. The composer wants to get paid.
What do we want, then? This or this?
Millions of rain drops quit, as well.
Heaven is great, but not if it lazes into hell.
The bottom grins from the bottom of the cup.
In my beautiful dream the most beautiful face
Was mine to endlessly kiss—
But my dream gave up.
There is only one thing we really want.
To keep on wanting this.