There’s a limit
To how much useful music you can make,
To how much tension you may instill,
To how much damage any one person deserves.
There is a limit to how much
Will soak into the pillow cases,
Into the sheets on her bed
Or the tips of your agitated hands
Or the soles of her yellow harried feet.
There is a point at which the night gives way
To a grey and rainsoaked morning.
And when you hit that wall,
When you reach that bluff,
That endless, precipiced edge,
Breath a sigh of relief and close your eyes.
Don’t be afraid to fall.