What is the end of your day? 
Do you fade into nighttime or toil away? 
I believe I was put here to worry and wait. 
We fail to make up for what we cannot name. 
Are you true to whatever you do? 
Or are you scared to bring light to your own misery? 
You're so wrapped up in your history that I never see you here. 
Think of me when you're painting mirrors by moonlight, 
I'll hold every clock hand to midnight. 
We've all got things to fear. 
What is the end of your week? 
Some wait for romance to play out like a scheme. 
Others wake Sunday and need to believe 
that their part in the system is what makes them free. 
But I'm just in need of some truth. 
I know it's here, but there are so many distractions. 
You'll drown in fear, just remember we are all scared, too. 
Don't neglect the ground we're all bared to; your roots will give you life.

I'm lost in the aisles, crossing the lines left behind in some gold-leafed illumination. 
I guess I'm better left to temptation, bared to the ground. 
A fool, no ascetic, I wander around. 
I spew the hermetic and never expound, still it feels like I'm homeward bound. 
And what are you to do when the working day catches up with you, a thirsty seed? 
I will lend a hand if you need: the running water to your olive tree. 
What is the end of your day? 
Are you slave to those mirrors your form fills with shame? 
I meant to free you from those frames but their gleaming has stolen us away.