I hear it
Faintly at first
louder
Louder
LOUDER
A sound like a whistle
At the same time like a dove
Soft and sweet
But an intense undertone
Is it sadness I sense?
Anger perhaps?
Oh
I feel it now
It's love
But I was right all along
Love can drive you to anger
And sadness
A song
Hardly ever worth singing
Yet it's everyone's favorite
The most difficult
To master
Everyone attempts
Those who succeed
It seems
Have all the happiness in the world
But do they succeed
Or only pretend to?
Mocking those that came before them
"This must be how we're supposed to love"
But they don't see
There is no right way
But there also isn't a wrong way
The song keeps ringing
The sound so loud
It's piercing through the shadows
Is this it?
Have I found love?
I reach
Through the darkness
Searching for something to hold onto
And suddenly
The sound stops
And you're in front of me

you are still have time
for eating what you want,
singing in the bathroom, and dreaming your dream

Cushions at the window,
and bed-spreads on the floor,
sits a girl with chestnut hair,
staring at the walls;
she's quiet and she's funny,
she's pretty and she's smart,
but she feels the things that you don't say,
and it hurts her bleeding heart.

Cause she don't know,
oh no she don't;
she don't know that her smile lights up the room
and that her light can carry far.
And she don't know,
and she don't care
that every time she hides her tears
her pretty face goes bare.

Sadness shapes her figure
and tear-stains ***** her cheeks.
she sits alone on a bathroom floor -
it's been happening all **** week.
Her friends wouldn't understand;
cause it's something she keeps inside,
so she runs downstairs to the girls bathroom -
'cause it's something she tries to hide.

cause she don't know,
oh no, she don't;
she don't know that her smile lights up the room
or that her light can carry far.
And she don't know,
and she don't care
that every time she hides her tears
her pretty face goes bare.

And she don't know.

Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.

What will you do, should you do
If you are led pass to fly
far from the sight at the twilight?
  
Slip into a tucked away serene sky
keeping your head held high
sway free by posy astro-ewers.
As you please pick and fill them  
with your so exquisite star-flowers!
Then you may well fancy reaching out
to the Moon bubbling on the edge of the night.

If you then swing back at the day peep
wake up listening the nightingale singing.
Now can you interpret what is it saying
or when all is in place something is missing?

Remembering to Sing.   Jack Ritter

If every deaf mute fell at once
into the singing seas,

what rhyming tremolos they'd plumb
from hoarding whales and siren thieves.

We'd fetch their choral fugues with nets
of woven unforgetfulness,

and to this deaf and dreamless Earth,
restore Her songs and memories.

  -- www.houseofwords.com --