There Isn't Enough of You

There isn’t enough of you in the mould.
Not that I still bank on the liquid gold -
it is only that I notice a power
reducing our eternity to an hour,
long like the lines that spell my sorrows,
long like your lines that tell tomorrows.
When you’re right here, I do not see enough -
enough of you, and it gets really tough
to watch more and more of you getting sold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.

The edges of the leaves I keep in books
shrink into syllables, these little crooks -
every song that I have been beading
into our story is only weeding
out the necessity for meaning -
and the urgency of all feeling
that I contain, that I confess to you.
I’ve now known that no music is true -
pain isn’t sung, hurt remains untold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.