After an iteration of lying silent,
Slowly breathing
In and out
Enduring a lifetime of suffocation,
Something is seen.
Amongst the ashes of what once existed
And along the edges of the things that used to grow,
Life begins again
A warmth and a green haze that belies
The reckless abandon
Of all that used to be.
The whisper of Hope begins
A hoarse and hollow voice
Folding in on itself
While it echos across the barren wasteland
Of old, storm-worn steps
That lead into the coming days.
I look up
At the ashes that still fall,
Settling at my shredded feet
In piles of gray
And despair.
But Hope's voice grows ever louder
Though it never rises above a mutter,
Weak and worn
From years of oppression.
My eyes land on a single shade of blue
That birthed the emerald Hope
Among the ashes of the past.
And in a swirling maelstrom of ephemeral understanding,
I can now see:
There will be music here again
It may be many an era before its strands
Pluck through the dust
Of the destruction wrought
But there will be music here again.

The heart of a writer is frail, like that of a flower waiting to be plucked. Life itself, or love, could uproot it, for no rhyme or reason.

I hate to say that my heart has been salted by the woes of man.
This never-ending race has left me wanting for watering.
Hang my heart on your wall with the others to dry out, my love.
I'm tired and weary—I need rest.

The smile that reached my eyes doesn't feel as genuine as I’d like,
When I always catch myself trying hard not to die inside.
Effort was made though the situation was far from fine,
One look wouldn't tell; a day spent could always lie.
Nothing would ever make anyone believe, the chaos I held,
Right here, inside my spacious but confined—
Witty yet always tired, sweet, fragile little mind.

If we're in our eighty's
And you thought of me
Relax and don't worry
Days have passed of me being weary

Now I'm floating, not in heaven
Nor purgatory and hell even
I'm one of the stars which the night livens
Smiling like when I was eleven.