straight lines do not inspire us;
straight lines, they make up a fence
now we look for empathy in coffee mugs
and the faces of the people in the street
where is the warmth we knew and loved?
where, where, is the sun?
why does repetition here not lead
to the liberation we have come to find in you?
where we are now, there are similarly
levels upon levels to climb
but with you what could be attained in a moment of love,
here takes years and years
far too long have i loved you and your accommodation;
you take me as i am, and i need not win you over, because
you will never leave
the straight lines in which we now clothe ourselves
and the straight lines upon which we walk
are none like the directness with which we approached you,
one bead of light at a time, along the length of your rope