There is no humor in my stance, as there are no open fires in my heart but I don’t mind as much as I do. Sometimes I think that what I’ve lost is lost, but there are places it still finds me, places it reaches me, knowing where I’d be searching. I feel my hands are nine tenths of the law, I hardly register my heart again but what I don’t feel, my hands always teach me. Overly fond of my darkness, but nearer to my pain, somehow it all makes less and less noise. Haven isn’t much, just a blanket tonight or a fierce kind word, but this youth in my chest is stolen never mine. Up there isn’t my place; that isn’t so, I think it is.
Justice demands an extensive price; I have paid for it. What have I earned? Where was the gain in the action? I ran into my arms today, they were waiting on the number three bus; I never ride the bus myself. I offered them a ride, but my arms have always been stubborn, and mistrusting, like me.
Right whispers to Left, “He always tries to come between us…”