Languishing leaves tumbling from summer trees
A lament which is granted by the autumn breeze
As if the idea of perfection isn't truly subjective,
I waste my time and wonder in ways so obsessive

As if I cannot feel right with the world
A wave of ravens disguised as shrikes,
As surely sharp as building arcs
Unable to keep up with what I like

Every beat of the heart,
The oscillation of sinew strings-
Sings melodies of pipe-dreams
And all the life they could bring

Ambiguity abound within pale halls
Shuffling between the fleeting tones,
The hand touching to the plaster wall
Chills into these very bones.

As if life was meant to be lived-
Without the full confidence to accept it,
Taught how to cope within a certain scope
Until we are accepted or rejected.