If all we want is consistent love
Why are we bred to deny it’s source?
I have made marriage to a form of clay,
I have begged more clay for my divorce;
So what more can my poor heart say
to disconnect and rise above?
And in the midst of solitude
my yearning reaches heaven’s ears
I grow replete with suffering
And spice my food with salty tears
Why, pain, must you and I be friends?
What will it take to honor you?
waiting for the good
to wash away