Stance on friends,
Changing like the tides of the ocean,
The hands of the sea,
Grappling with the grip on the land masses they move,
So am I to grapple,
As I move,
With my friends.
Do I move my friends with my movement,
Or do they move me.
My sweetest of convictions when I make a difference,
In a life, any life, except my own.
They matter to me,
As questions to a child.
Essential, each in their own right,
Yet here I am alone,
Time and time again,
Making a difference when I do touch,
When I reach, grapple, and move someone.
And oh the rapture when they rejoice,
When they are moved and I do win,
I do grapple, and they do see.
But it's harder now,
Since I'm alone all the time,
Harder for them to see me.
Harder for myself to see them they way they are,
And the way they should be.
Black is grey, and white is silly pink.
Oh I grapple still, on occasion,
Much as a master dabbles in his skill,
Less and less as the years progress,
My dablings much needed to keep my alive,
My dablings done because they are need,
Not want.
I want to see you with me,
Grappling,
How I miss your grasp,
And how I miss to move you.
Some day, far from now,
I will move you again, in another life.
Yes, it seems only fitting,
That if we were meant for one another,
We move together, throughout our lives...
I have to grapple with myself now,
For fear of leaving this one.