static discharge

tho i carry you
pulsing thru time
the innocent memory
in a box made of flesh
is that all we have left?

soon we all go to bones
beyond that, in our tombs
lie the tracing of who and what
we once were atop of the thing
that holds only a score
of what made us whole, and living
and free. and answer me this
what good is the grief
of people who knew us or knew
of us then? all time passes thru
our wages of sin.

so what is this thing i'm waiting to have
and to hold in these arms not yet dead and cold?
it is only in living and only in giving
that we can be true to the air of our feeling.