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P.S. Eliot

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P.S. Eliot

Zoroaster

i bet you thought you'd die before you'd see the day
when i'd adher to these trite, tender cliches
like you and me, we've been through everything
why we deny this pattern or what underlies
teenage southern comfort, penitent goodbyes
and my laments always sound like lullabies
its how our heart's contrived, to hang heavy
we get caught up all drenched in misanthropy
disagreeing just to disagree
and either i'm sadistic or they fall in love too easily

but its not redlight love
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its not the grief that forces succumb
its not cold night love
its not the strain that forces us numb

i know that you'll believe me, that i meant no harm
your empathetic discourse is like an inner alarm
that you and me always end up back in each other's arms
it's our tender, tenacious hearts
they hang heavy