A vigil kept in empty times
To watch for signs of safe return;
The mission of forgotten folk
As long as there is wick to burn
Because — well, there is no ‘because’
The world would have us recognize —
But, maybe, this is what love is:
To wait, to hope,
we chase at times the wild prize
that runs from us unflaggingly;
we track at times the quiet hope
that slides and sidesteps, stealthily –
or maybe, we’ve just one desire:
a slender, lonely, candle-beam —
that we have never chased or tracked
for it’s right there,
The love that was, where does it go?
Why does it slip away?
She wonders, as the autumn slow
Comes drifting in with orange glow,
To keep her hopes at bay,
To keep her hopes at bay.
The love that was, why does it rage
And storm to find no port?
Just scribbled hearts upon a page,
The price of pain, the lover’s wage,
And dreams cut far too short,
And dreams cut far too short.
The love that was, why does it end?
Why should such sorrow be?
But none can ever comprehend
The ways of life and loss of friend
Or love, that endless sea —
Or love, that endless
Tell me who I am, and I’ll tell you
About the kind of world you long to see:
A wonderland beyond expectancy,
Where what is good, and beautiful, and true
Can find a home, or sit beneath the stars
Like fireflies turned loose at last from jars.
Tell me what you’ve learned, and I’ll show you
The hope you once thought you had left behind;
To be alike, is to be of a kind
Of world that we could make or form anew —
So come and swim the galaxy with me,
For to belong is to be truly
On nights when we could see the stars,
We wondered at the glory;
Ablaze in constellations, each
With some amazing story.
The sky turned blank; our love a thing
To place in a museum —
But, oh, the stars, they’re still up there:
Even when we
Can’t see ‘em
Your presence gives me hole —
As though a week was lifted from my shoulder —
I kosher it’s just a trope,
The kind we entertain as we get okra —
You wear it like a diary
That sparkles in the sketch,
Inline to you for everything
And you donut ask why —
Your live, it gives me hope:
It’s like the kiss that signature Spring
The hole you place
The clouds, like us, seem made of naught but dust:
We travel over hard and rocky ground,
Through countless miles agitated strife,
Then pour our dirty selves back down to earth,
As ash to ash, and dust to dust, indeed.
The clouds, like us, chaotic and obscure:
We tangle in each other, slipping out,
And heaving back into confusing mist.
The past, the future, both – so much to know
That we can never fathom, though we try,
To find some shape or order in it all.
The clouds, like us, whose days are hard and brief:
But in whose tears are growth, and life, and hope.