Merely A Lay

Daydreaming is no answer to yearning.
Forgiving, though spine, is never enough.
Time can deaden a pain or chill the burning,
But the memory remains as vivid and tough.

Isolation is no remedy for sorrow,
and Wandering, though path, is no excuse.
Time can ease past into tomorrow,
But cannot at once personify into Muse.

Inspiration's face, embalmed, cripples Art,
And Art itself seems life itself, at times;
As if the whole, hurt, could live as a part,
As if breath or blood could be verse, a rhyme.

A hurt bird sings the same, or so it seems,
For nobirds can't understand what is its song:
As if Poetry, broken, in dark could gleam,
Or as if a word so short could sound as long.

The answer lies on the thorns, so green,
Though in the petals we fancy the truth to be.
As blood, in vessels few, could reach the brim,
We deny the questions (at root or sinew they be)

Metaphors are no way to cease one's pain.
Paradoxes, though comfort, are never an end.
Time can change movement into quiet refrain,
But the bending of truths is only this - a bend.

Awaken night and drowsy day are of no use,
and so is deliverance itself, if in guise of dreams.
Time can unite threads, melt shards, light a fuse,
But cannot neglect Life, whatever Life seems.

So, if at once, Life would be the guise of Dream,
Deny the petals and bloody vessels so vain,
From drunk laughter dive in Truth, though grim,
And so you may hope to find surcease for Pain.