We do our best to live our very best life, but mayhaps our best life is the afterlife, and mayhaps that was the mystery grasped by the world long ago.
Some songs get you going and remind you who you are. This morning as I drove to work, this song came on and I listened especially intently to the words.
I've lived with//Vicariously numb fingertips//I have sat//In surrogate silence//This life is mine to save//Leaving cut roses on your grave
God paints the sunrise with the softest blues//And loverly, effervescent yellows//If I were a bird, it'd be my featherbed//And if I were a melody, it'd be my complement
I have never been one to revisit or edit anything I write... but I realized that can be as counter-productive as editing too much, and I know there is a fine line in there somewhere. This is the beginning of a journey I'm hoping to take regularly not only to improve my writing, but to inspire myself into potentially writing something completely brand new that is more polished and well-thought-out from the very start, and thus improve my writing overall. This poem was initially written to be turned into a song, and as such, is simple for the sake of rhyme and meter. I tried to maintain that stylistically, to a degree, though I was fighting myself to make it more eloquent yet unwieldy for use as lyrics. I may revisit it again someday and simply make it the best poem it can be. My hope is for this interpretation to clarify some of the meaning intended.
Most children enjoy being tended to by their mothers when they are under the weather, but Little Miss Hobbs needed only the weather to tend to her, and mayhaps a bottle of bubbles to blow indoors without a mother to scold her about the scum it'd surely leave on the windows and floor.