Tuesday, March 11

song against it

The lake is a desperate thing, but what am I?
It freezes over, but I turn in bed, I squeeze shut my eye.
I turn my bed, a bouncing boat,
Thinking of the winter lake. Her blue-grey coat
Spreads out like I so long to do.
I toss and flip, away and facing you.

I am not one to sing the song against it
that's for sure-- you're the one
with value, precious and demure.
I've been trampled, true. You are the one to choose
And I am not as pure- but certainly
I did not think I had anything to lose.
I still do not think it is a thing to lose.

What do you want from me? Squeeze gold
From my flesh, press
Me like skin until lemon oil flows?
Gag sunshine from my mouth?
Make springtime from between my thighs?
What do you want me to do?

I have thrown fits, and thrown myself
Here and there. It's not a lot. I don't despair-
The lake throws herself at jagged rocks
But emerges quite repaired. I place such faith in the thought
That I'm the fountain that renews.
You might, with ink more permanent, write
So you are the one to choose.

This is a song against it, now,
So screams my every dream, but I don't hear.
This is a song against it but still I stand,
Ice-eyed, lake-mouthed, rock-handed, without fear.

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