What is the nature of our journey?

What is the nature of our journey? What the task we're set to do? What the trials we pull through or failures we keep turning out? And who's to set the number? What's the time when time is right? When am I unencumbered? And who will pity my plight? And who's to judge when love is wrong? What voice would silence beauty's song? And when the day is running long from night into another, who sits beside me, guiding me, providing me advice I need, when every time I writhe and plead I find myself alone? Who will help alleviate the seeds that I have sown? Or is it, indeed, even I who cultivates, full grown, the dreams of deeds falling like beads down through my mind that find my heart? Tell me, could it be so that someone else may have imparted some of that which has been started? Every flickering glance that's darted through uncharted waters through the coral reefs of terror as some happy, woeful bearer of the joy of Zeus's daughters finds me always unprotected finds my heart, so long neglected this emotion has infected me down to my deepest core Again I ask you: is it wrong? This song that I am singing? And the tidings I'm not bringing? You are lingering in my mind My heart My Soul is humming melodies my heart is drumming fingers drumming tumbling, tumbling, and I fight it when I can and ask again, about the ban: Is it right? It shouldn't be so complicated I should let it go, they say but even so yes, even so  I love you it's so simple and it doesn't need explaining in the time that's slowly waning what are any of us gaining sitting here and growing older while the season waxes colder? Shouldn't warmth be what we're seeking? Every breath that we aren't speaking should be spent together blissfully not lonesome, far, and wistfully But such is not the case It is so far to fall from grace I find, again, that I am torn And every rose will have its thorn Each stabbing sweetness I have bourne mocks cruelly of completeness each unruly dream I can't put down brings a smile that fades to frown and deep within my eyes of brown One looking closely might see you in more times than a few And I've made too much of it all I've paced it up and down the hall and masqueraded at the ball For all that, it's not faded. I'm no monster, nor am jaded, just perhaps it's all related but I know that nothing's fated Nothing written in the stone for the smitten and alone just a girl to call my own was all I asked for Mark Burton November 2nd, 2005, 3:45 A.M.