Rebellion, Recklessness, Realization, Repentance, Restoration
Mail The Prodigal Child
The Prodigal Child's Home

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To sit and think that maybe this once it will live.
To sit and know that like past lives it will die.
To know with no experience the soft and frail white.
To know with every cell the pain such gentleness evokes.
I can sit and dream each day of a time when things are better.
I do sit and play around the target but never to the heart.
And like a sharp blade dulling to a gentleman's walking stick
The anger subsides to a dull want too vague for words that aren't there.
Will this be the last? Will the be the first? Will this be?
Because my flaws are so great and yours don't seem so.
For now I know that a circle is turning and nearing the end of the rotation.
I know this has happened again and again and will happen until the pain of
gentleness faints me.
But one can dream and each pull of the strings is another reverberation and
each pull weakens the whole, and each pull widens the hole.
When you equate happiness and pain your argument is unbeatable, but when you
equate pain and happiness you're a realist.
And reality is unbeatable.
Maybe some day reality will see an end to my time here and a beginning of yours.
Then I won't have to make such vague and easily misinterpreted swipes at truth.
Then I will be able to goad you into realization.
Then I will be able
To sit and think that maybe this once it will live.