Sing soft into the open window as if anyone cared to look or listen.
Part lips like a Mary to her shepherd who steals love from those with no faith
Only to break bread with a supposed answer
If they hear you, would it matter? Would your world change for the better?
Or worse, you go coarse as a lioness calling for a mate in an uninhabited jungle
The trees beckon for the crying to stop, lo and behold the will for love.
Or is it sex so violently cursing through the veins with pain
A virtueless struggle, and impassible feening.
Saddened, but happy because the bruises they show, yearning for those to notice.
Sympathy comes from weaker friends or foes who care not of your healing
but that you were in pain before them. And there they stood;
omnipotent and pretty, like a shadow there to be the healer
The giver the feeler the wanted and the needed, roles of the winning
Oh how life feels on the top, but tread carefully as the water is thin and gravity prevails.
Just as the greed hits the singer longing for an audience
The saved become well and healer becomes un
So they look for a path to break down the branches, tear up the leaves
Because a life not stranded, no stockholm syndrome, leaves them
Feening for the feeling of the needing and the stealing;
of hearts that feed your cold lungs the air they need to breath and live.
