Are these matters
Commensurate, I really have
Little or frequently no idea.
All I know is relative
Within my idealistic heart,
This desire, wanting you near,
Like a pendulum pulling on
The weights of my attention,
Harmonic oscillations,
I stand in the hallway of my life,
Dust appears in shafts on light
Through a stained glass window
Above a blue door I cannot open,
Doomed to stay motionless
Until I am used for new fires.
