The days are made of gifting and thieving, of blissing and grieving
The savvy of time sends our meadows unleaving
We are Loved and killed
Kissed and crossed
Sung to, lied to, craved and ignored
The trees of our trusting; chopped at, cared for, pecked at and torn
The trees of our trusting
Are both watered and scorned
So how through these trees do we keep our cravings alive?
How on this earth does one's warmth survive?
Through the fibs and false claims? Through the tricks and fierce rains?
How does one keep their wit and wet tongue?
How does one stay hopeful and young?
With hands bit and bruised, and calloused of rust
How does one fight the fate of lost lust?
How, must I ask,
How does one save their fine treasures of trust?
Perhaps there's an answer in the dusk of disguise
Covered in blue, like liquids, like skies, told whispers in blackness, in a lake of closed eyes
Perhaps there's an answer from that voice in the dark
That middle tone true, slow and untouched, speaking upfront, redefining ones trust:
Trust is the beads of failures and nicks
Trust is the sureness of falling off cliffs
It is the favor of strife, of life and its lies, full of demise and cold lonely cries
It is the contrast on streets and torment and treats
It is the ash that blows and the lows of love throes
And the loft of love highs
Trust is the cravings of hidden intent; the fossils of fate have proven fate's twist
For without nights of pain and sleeping unkissed, ask yourself this:
If not for trust pained
What would life be
If not for trust gained?