A pregnant pause, uninterrupted by the slightest,
turn of page.
They say write what you hear to a world of the
deaf.
I hear many things, and what of it. what of those sounds we
forget?
Those sounds we brush to the furthest expanses of our brains.

we sweep them under the bed not to
forget, but,
to clean. We're always cleaning, always
leaving those sounds.

I have thought many things of us,
things, which make the sun shine bright,
of things which make the darkest night,
shine brighter than the light of day,

While many months or days or years
may turn the light from bright to tears,
I'll never forget months which felt like years
that light will never go away.

and if to say these things we loose,
or should our love er go away,
and should the very time we choose,
to say goodbye, goodnight,  good day,
be the time, at which, that light turns off,
and darkest night not run away,
then let me simply turn the switch,
for that light will never go away.

Time may fade the many parts,
the many stars that lit my heart, and made me feel this way.
but time may never take apart,
the many shades of light in dark,
and time will never shade my heart
that light will never go away.

I hope you see this as I do,
a page by any other name,
for this is not a loves lost note,
nor a declaration of my pain,
this simply is my trust to you,
to show this has not been in vain,
for love has many shapes and forms,
although it seems like just a game,
and while the light we made burns low,
and tired eyes have turned astray,
you should always and forever know.

that light will never go away.

Do you ever wonder,
where we go?
If I'll see you,
when we know.

If you'll sleep
without the light,
Or wake up
with eyes wide bright.

and if you'll see
the secrets kept
by those so
weary and unwept.
who have not gone
to sleep just yet,
but have to stay
to keep our debts.

Those weary ones
who may not sleep
nor rest their eyes
while others weep.

and have to ask
what truth is right,
and question still
where is the light.

or is it that
the light is there,
amidst those left
to pay our fares.
around the world
we all call home
in every day
and all we're shown

I guess we'll find out
when we know.

In every time,
we use our voice,
to speak our mind,
or! just rejoice,
and every thing
we love or hate,
and everyone
who called us mate,
and every where
we went to see,

I cannot say,
I do not know

I guess we'll find out
when we go