Inching only towards what should be
Anything resembling furtherance.
Standing ovation every morning.
It's loud and I'm hearing
And seeing
Either way I'm leading
I am lost.
I am lost.

Watered by weathers, warmed by bushfires.
My soul will unfold on an incline.
I'm teething, I'm healing, I'm free and I'm fine.
It's earnest, honest urgency, honestly.
Angels love me - they're hoping to be with me,
Breed with me
But either way I'm leaning
I am slumped.
Up until I'm even
I am odd.
Even when we're loving
Is it love?
Is it love?