The Object Of Song

[J Hillenburg]

The Object Of Song


She marvels at my impulsiveness, I marvel at her touch
that reduces complexities down to manageable affairs.
She disapproves of my passion, my apologies, my crutch
upon which I lean, completely indifferent or unaware.
She makes an allowance for my transgressions, my sins
that I bring upon myself, she looks out for me as I sing.
And her generosity knows no limits, but I cannot pretend
to have more than this little song to you I humbly bring.

She detests my unreasonable ambitions, wanton desires
that bear little resemblance to reality, fanciful at best.
She sits in stark judgement of goals to which I aspire,
ready to obstruct my actions or lodge a heated protest.
She walks in my dreams without fail, and casts a form,
a living shadow that I can neither recognize nor name.
She elevates my spirit, and I am blessed as I inform
these lines with all of the devotion and love I can claim.