Under what color of sky shall we pretend
that all that for which our hearts are grieving
is lost to us
held in the keeping of other hands

On which day will we decide
that yesterday was the lie
but having no words for such a sentiment
will simply be born to a life which lives it
without speaking it

During which Moon will we surrendur
and stop pretending
to never-ending
lust for things that we never wanted
and cannot own
but burden us nevertheless
dragging us down
with the inevitable
gravity of the grave

Only naked will we meet the sunrise
when at last it comes
we have only tonight
to make up our minds