What life conceives besides leaving,
what's merely born to loyalty,
and living hurts of self-dissecting
to pieces scrapped by honesty;
wish I'd love what I'm supposed
deeply loving this self-left soul
I mirrored broken as I
for what reflection would keep me
whole;
when will this be over;
when will my sleep by my resting
on never dreams of brought reality,
when will my brothers be love-feasting;
when will this be over;
when shall companions of truth
would wreck me clearer than before;
before my killers--my soothe;
perhaps, what's anticipated
on womb-breaking's my only blue
for what other shade do I paint
but love's most merciless hues;
perhaps, my maybes are my certain,
perhaps, there's wisdom behind
guessing,
but what reliance has my knowledge
when merely questions am I dressing;
this shall surprise me not;
this born rotation behind conscience
behind filtered enthusiasm
to clear doubters of my consents;
may let this be surprise;
surprise to never hold existence
on boy's uncertainties collapsing;
for but a lie's also resistance.
