Soup

Old man's bones wither with time,

he breaks his neck for trust and honey,

cracks his teeth to be a little good.

I haven't yet decided how I will break mine,

for now I'm making soup.

I see him the way a woman should,

not like he was built to suffer.

One day I'll see what God intended,

for now I'm making soup.

Same old whispers, the same fine lines,

living room rock star, heart so grand.

A lot to say, none the wiser

I could've made some soup for the man,

now I can't be sure either.