I want to go home
Where the skies are rich in color
And the trees are tall and old
I miss my family
The ones who know my soul
I whisper their names when I'm alone
Thinking of my love for them
I crave the feel of home
Where it's not foreign
And I know the sea's breeze and the mountain's cold.

I once wrote my own pain
It came upon me like a dream
Living each day in this story of my own making.
Wondering, what was I thinking?

When I die,
Let my blood fill this ink.
Let my tears wet these pages.
Let my heart beat in these lines.
In these words I lived.
And here is where I'll be buried.

From a window in the dark I watched a lonely meadowlark.
It flit and it flew from every branch that grew.
Carrying stories of all my worries.
It livened and it knew of every thing my heart had ever sewn.
In grief and in joy it plucked my tender strings never playing coy.
Singing sweet songs of hope and weeping of times when I was left a hollowed corpse.
It danced in merriment and marched in vile contempt.
Some branches bent to its weight while others never dipped to my fate.
We are all watching in the dark the mysterious workings of the heart.
They kindle and stoke a temptuous fire that will set the soul alight.
Bringing even the strongest to their knees, we are all watching, can't you see?
Watching the lone meadowlark whisper our stories to the trees of all we have ever loved and grieved.