Truth.

The face
Of an elderly widower,
At the funeral
of an old friend.

I've got some scores to settle
      With the man upstairs,
And they range from the red on his hands,
      To the grey in my hairs.
7 billion fools sharing 13 stool
      In this game of musical chairs,
And a set of ****** rules
     Worse than middle school dares.

A crash.
A blast.
A splash.
A laugh.
A head.
A hand.
A foot.
A heart.

She tethered me to the real world.
And the worst part:
I was grateful for it.

More or less
She simply loved me less.
And I can't fault her,
For less was her best.,
And lest I speak wrong
While seeking to impress,
That through it all,
Nevertheless,
I loved her the best.

I'm sitting by the beach.
And there are so many others,
Sharing this sand.
Why?
Not here to swim.
Not to pick up love.
Not to fish.
We gather here,
Simply
To be near beauty.

Beauty is our magnet.
We want to situate ourselves
As close to it as possible.
To crawl into bed with it
And drape an arm over.

So is my love for her.

I just see so much beauty
In all of her.
It's gravity.

In the heart of each singer there lives a breathing bird,
Who awakes and greets each morning just to spread his word.
His breast, it swells with air straight from Olympus Mountain,
And the people drink of his melody as a shaded backwoods fountain.

The morning sun invites the song and the singer must oblige;
And when that star takes rest, the song still illuminates the sky.
There is no moment of any spinning day that some tune cannot make               right.
Every singer knows that the Song of Silence often holds the most delight.

Now, where does music grow, but straight out the land and seas?
Amidst the fields and lily-patches live the sweetest melodies.
Many blind optometrists trample song with their learned, leaden feet.
But every child knows to cherish both the flower and the ****.