Written In The Barn

I cannot tell which way prayers will turn and waiting for you to finish is unbearable

Therefore I know walking away is best in all of the temporary heartache brought

High hopes are foolish, expectations cruel, desire mockingly flagrant

Perhaps love is suicide, bringing an early death to open hearts

All of my dreams and plans dashed into my eyes, cold debris.

*

Surely wanting affection shouldn’t be war and yet echoes of love being a battlefield blow trumpets

Some claim to be without decision in confusion as no decision is one

Years of wondering if I’m good enough brought to trial exposed

And do you have any idea how much love I have stored, even when I’m mad there’s no room in my packed storehouse

Seemingly infinite, for naught

Tears secretly planted so I may realize some destinations can never be fully embraced

Maybe in death, mind finished firing pain, I’ll find rest, the peace I was looking for with you.

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