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?