They used to mean something,
The words that I would write —
A pane of shattered glass
That filled my dark with light.
Like a refuge from the storm,
Or a beacon’s guiding light —
They pulled my wreck from midnight seas
And brought me back to life.
They used to mean something,
I guess, to some, they do —
Like flowers in a vase
Arranged for public view.
You fall in love so easily,
With every painted hue —
Your reds and yellows, greens and blues,
Are gray brushstrokes to me.
I hope this means something,
These words I’ve now restored —
A poem’s pain through which you'll see
My heart ablaze once more.