I have intended to live open-handed
My relaxed spine saluting heaven
And bowing low to no man.

Clutching no sorrow, no regret, no horror
Longer than a snowflake on an extended palm:
A thing I shan’t own- a thing to borrow.

Time is haggard, a poor braggart
Incurring debts he cannot cover,
Ever gambling as he staggers on.

The world is in arrears and cannot repay
Hope for fear, love for hate, or youth for the years
It has squandered away.

The depth in years of these sorrows
Brim up behind my eyes
But they will not spill in quantities
To cleanse what I despise.

I wonder how numerous the lies
Hiding under wet stones
Along the path of our timeline
We walked together; we walk alone.

In what else I could not condone,
Could you not refrain?
And when these stones are overturned
What else can still remain?