What is love? It's been
asked too many times before.
Old and withered, a question is
like its maker. He waits
between time and space for
one, caring and understanding,
to answer. It is the very way
clocks turn and feathers fall,
like anything else--instinct.

Or perhaps it is a dream
waiting for its dreamer to awake
hoping to live in the realm of
real, in vain and pain.
Your taut skin repulses me;
it is so new and different,
and what I do not understand
I do not chase down. Love is,
again, without hope.

Clocks will continue to turn and feathers will
continue to fall, making love to the wind as they do.
Oh, such a sweet scent leaves make flying by.
My breath appears in the mirror as I cough.
Between time and space I chase down nothing.
I am a dreamer to wake.