Good things do not last long, it’s the truth;
They fade out, they vanish, they end;
I keep thinking they will last, last through time;
I cling on to hope, I grasp, I even pretend.
The good is relative, the wise ones say;
The good comes and goes only to come again.
The wise ones nod their wise heads and ask:
What is it that I really hope to retain?
I do not like the wise, they instil doubt;
They make the good not seem so good;
And I wonder if I hope, for what was that?
And if I hope again, if I really should?
I think and I think and wisdom surfaces;
I can almost feel the wise ones smile;
I see myself a little clearer, the same truth,
That I disregarded for a little while.
It is a sign of a deep seeded analysis,
Of some jargon from freudian slips,
Of hurt that male figures left behind,
On my doubtful soul, on my hungry lips.
I see this truth again, and feel the scorn
Of all those who claim to be so very wise;
I see myself as I forever have,
Through the ones I want, their very eyes.
I wish I knew how to make peace
With this clueless boy within me.
How do I make him understand
All that is but what he cannot see?
The perspective of self, mirror and eyes,
Will always wary, so maybe stick to one?
The wise ones will always say, perhaps,
There is no choice, when there is but one sun.
So as wisdom prevails I must tell him
Look to self, let mirror and eyes shatter;
Men will come and go, come and go,
It’s only you that will, in the end, matter.