Sometimes there is relief 

in the sanity of a routine 

that has never been done. 

And the glee of a note 
that's never been sung

And the rhythm of my steps 
as we design new paths

These are the aspects of the craft 

Not that I was a man of trade 

or knew true sweat 

or the value of grain 

I only am 

what I cannot be 

As what I see

Is out of reach 

        Bound to a destiny 

          that had little fate

And ate what's left of hope

     if there was ever any.

Why should I fuel a drive 

that isn't moved 

or covers any miles ?

And how can I keep a smile 

with a face 

that wasn't mine ?

But every flame has its time 

And every rose has their season

they bud and bloom then

bend to wilt

to worship the ground 
w

ithout a reason  

But why point out the beauty 
of beautiful things? 

And act like the landscape 
doesn't have a unique tinge 

and it's own role.

For how would a rose stand out
without the blur of the weeds

And how would the horizon's waters look  

without a gesture of the breeze 

What's the purpose of a Full moon 
to lack the stars reflection in the lake

And you can't say 

you'd ever have winter 

without the art of a snow flake.