Swan Song

You ride with rectitude,

on a cloud of spilled ashes.

And you sleep with the pain

and make love to the sadness.

You make clothes out of candor 

and affairs out of heartache.

And you want to be present

but your head’s out of reach.

And you want her to be there 

but you cannot preach.

And you dive and you dive

deeper into yourself,

until you forget that you ever felt.

And we look divine in a cage

and we look too old for our age

and we walk the world as our stage

but what you don’t see we’re implying,

this is our adadieuwe are dying.