I think I’ve found a reason
that I hold the belief.
I can’t commit to memory.
In this particular case I don’t see the reason why -
details are full color here.
You paint it as a cynic, unfolded as it has.
On good days, I wait before I speak.
I don’t want to see where you are.
I don’t want to breathe what you are.
I don’t want to know what you thought.
Sometimes it’s better to move on.
So much is arbitrary.
What does it mean to be fair?
The gut can speak a volume, clear.
With dissonance as nature
and analysis as rule,
it’s a condition that I know.
On good days there will be mercy -
patience can be a home.
The scent upon the air gives rise.