Rough Edges

In this song I hear you sing
There are swallows here and there
As you question the beauty of the rasps
And the runs you try so hard to make
To impress me

In this song I hear you sing
There are rough dips, rough rises
of pitch, of pinecone dust
rough edges of the mountains you create

I can hear your soul
In the highs and the lows
As you make spontaneous poetry

I see the rough edges in the tears that fall
The skin you try to conceal
I see the rough edges in the hunch in your back
In the shadows; in the real

I see the rough edges in the blisters on your feet
That ran till they had to fall
I see the story that you're trying to complete
But the fear overwhelms it all

I see the rough edges in the folds of your praying hands
In the echoes of your mistakes
That play again and again
And like a series of tidal waves
Push you down to the seabed again

I see the rough edges in your smile
The consciousness creeps in
I see you biting your lip
And shying away
from the pain, from the beauty

I see the rough edges in the breaths you take
In the periodic gasps of life
I see the rough edges in the art you make
The brushstrokes must have strife

But somehow,
I see no rough edges in you.