Things Unsaid to a Young Songsmith

What could I say to her,
She had everything now,
She'd yet to start losing things,
How cruel could I be,

She told me of changes,
She told me of her new world,
She told me of her arsenal,
She told me of the wounds she would inflict,

Who was I to tell her of the world,
The world that was,
The world that is,
The beast with no flesh to wound,

Should I have told her,
That the world is a mirror,
The ugliness she sees in her reflection,
The ugliness she sees in the world,

They are the same,
If you wish to break the mirror,
It will shatter with a moment of freedom,
But the reflection will remain unseen,

Unseen but not forgotten

She told me of the power of love,
She told me of the truth in love,
She told me of the salvation of love,
She told me she would live in love,

Was I to warn her,
Should I tell her that love is a furnace,
Should I tell her of its flames,
Reducing your soul to a smaller form,

Should I tell her of her bloated clay soul,
One that felt grander than it ever would,
Once the fires licked the clay,
It would shrink and become hard,

What to do with this new cutting tool,
This hard ceramic soul,
Stronger than the clay,
But now brittle and given to shattering,

Shattering at any off angle impact

No, I would not attack her youth,
I would not warn her of new spring buds,
That their hue would never match the imagined possibilities,
She would learn soon enough,

So I burned her a Leonard Cohen disc,
To be played immediately after her Joni Mitchell