It cannot be denied that what we are
is tragedy; we want, imagine, need
what can't exist, though lies are told that bar
our understanding this with hope and greed.
What he wants is not what I am, maybe;
what I want is not what he is, surely.
We expect the happiness, the baby,
as we heard, believed, and trusted purely.
Our speech upholds our dreams, but still we grow
both upward and apart. The things we seek
cannot exist although we need them, so
we seek with hopeless hope and hardly speak.
All the time we're talking, smiling, joking,
we are treading water; we are choking.
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