Rarely does someone knock at my door . . .
It may be the darkness that they fear;
Through the open windows my voice resounds,
Perhaps they're startled by what they hear
I do tend to rant in mournful ways,
Maybe at times, a bit too robust,
But this is my voice, and these are my words,
So maintain your distance, if you must
There are those who commune quietly,
Speaking of God and his loving ways;
And those who reminisce about their youth,
Recalling scenes from happier days
But never has God come to my door,
So I have no divine tales to tell;
My youth was simple, passed with nonchalance,
So on this theme I've no need to dwell
But I could speak of cold, lonely nights
And the anguish of being alone;
How adept I am at nursing love's wounds,
Yet, I never learned to heal my own
More than once, rough winds have ****** me down,
And Time had to re-feather my wings;
I've been neglected, abandoned and lost,
So I tend to dwell upon these things
You'll not hear a cheerful melody
Streaming through the broken window panes,
There's no roaring fire blazing on the hearth,
Just smoldering embers of love's remains
Skies become gray, and clouds tend to burst
When they pass over my little space;
Perhaps this is why guests dare not linger . . .
Too daunting and dismal is my place.
Well, then be off with you, and quicken your pace!