a poor figment of a guardian.
No more present than magic. Or luck.
If you are here, you are a liar and this is a masquerade.
Prayers placed futile on our lives as wishes on coins in a fountain.
If you were there, it just confirms you watched me drown.
Again and again.
And so there is no "later" that you can come, that I would find relief.
I'm vexed to think when and how you'd choose to lift a finger
And so there is no "later" that you can come, that I would find relief.
I'm vexed to think when and how you'd choose to lift a finger
– it must be heavy, such burden of power.
Why should I awe at you, if whether you're here or not, everything is the same.
What love is love that looks on its object's suffering with indifference, unmoved.
Now I have more faith in myself, than I'd ever had in you
because I was always there,
and any of you
Why should I awe at you, if whether you're here or not, everything is the same.
What love is love that looks on its object's suffering with indifference, unmoved.
Now I have more faith in myself, than I'd ever had in you
because I was always there,
and any of you
was me.
