The Morning

I know that I'm not a poet
because I get too bored with the words.
And all I can see is the wasted time
and there's no sublime
like the small of your back;
the base of your spine.
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
I know that you couldn't listen to that song.
It froze you right there where you stood.
We carried the weight of this love for so long;
Flew down the hill side,
sand in our hand.
The sun was upon us
as we fell through the air.
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
After the boards and the nails had their way
and all of the saints were put to shame,
all I could see was the wasted breath;
the reality of betrayal,
how we lied to each other,
but mostly to ourselves.
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
All I can see is the morning coming back
and making the world whole again.
The hopefulness of another chance,
to not go wander or settle for less
and holding the miracle
in the palm of your hand,
to witness a beginning
you can almost understand.
What was it?
What was it?
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
What was it that you wanted that you would not want again?
What was it?
What was it?