Much of this is gone What remains feels watered down It drips cold through everything A grain of sugar in a flood It bubbles Like oil Petroleum Black and thick Petroleum Beneath the sea Below Sea level Flowers take time to grow And still, I wait for them Is this what they call maturing? Learning to suffer, lose, and wound? There's a thin line Between what is And what could be It could always be more And what is Never satisfies me It runs Like blood Fast Serpents Leap from the arteries To rain red On some black surface Like pitch Under the shadow of a sordid willow But when disillusion makes me stronger Placing me on an altar Between life and death I start to understand this cold game There's a thin line Between what is And what could be It could always be more And what is Never satisfies me I carve a needle made of ice To point me north I find a stone cup, deeply scarred No less than my own heart Cold, muddy, chipped Overflowing with tears and illusion Patient, I wait for The waters to settle Until I see myself In a translucent mirror There I place the needle I carved And beg for direction All day long There's a thin line Between what is And what could be (And I'm bleeding on this) What is Never satisfies me The needle swings And spins Then stops, shining There is no north, it screams Melting In the setting Sun I only hope That crimson red Spills shapes into the grass And gives flowers To the weeds Feeding those born in the desert And washing Somehow redeeming The filth Of lies and illusions