Sing to me, little angel, show me
your way; show me the light
of a thousand days
Keep me from harm, little angel, keep me
at bay; keep me from going
too far astray
Tell me you love me, little angel, tell me
it's true; tell me thus always so
I never lose you.

songs put together—
made
to bring my heart home.
you see,
she’s lost.

she’s lost in my mind.
songs take her home,
takes her back to the past
of something that did not last.

doors open when the words ring
bring her, bring
her back to me.

I no longer want to feel
incomplete.

sweet song-bird
sing me a song
for dead is the source
of my romance and youth

sweet song-bird
hum your sweet tune
for dust and shade are all i am
for dark is nigh and spring recedes

sweet song-bird
before i lay rest,
sing to me your sighs
lasting quake and duress

I.
There was once a tiny, fading lily
Her beauty was diming, merely,
Aiya Aiya…  Lucia Lucia

Where wonders trapped her in deep sorrow
Where the root called her to continue to grow

Standing alone, an existence of solitude
While the white lily shall love in delight , 
Nor weeping alone or shining in an illuminous light . 

II.
Lily desires to live, in a place without pain
But the lily’s life is full of strife and strain

Hey, Rain, did the miracle come?
Look, oyster silver clouds replace dark blue skys

Aiya Aiya…  Lucia Lucia
As the rain started to fade into the solo song
As the Lily stood while its immunity could run
Who could take one name and lead an ever gain?

Hey, Rain, the miracle came.
Listen, silent whispers shared across the air
and the rain and peacefully landed on Lily.

III.
Out of the deep trauma that every day grew
Out of the rain, the Lily was relieved that someone else knew 

Who makes her wonder,
if the rain didn’t know of the Lily’s
wayward roots
What does the rain want to know,
although the Lily hold them as emotional loot

Aiya Aiya…  Lucia Lucia
Who is Lily as she solely sings alone in the rain?
And her heart is bleeding from the excruciating pain

when she talks to him,
her words run together.
her heart sings a love song,
eyes glowing with the truth.

The opposite of war isn't peace.
It's creation.
So take this time of isolation
To make something that inspires
A generation.
A poem. A movie. A song.
Something that reminds us
That even though we feel alone,
We belong.

The Century’s Wake
by Michael R. Burch

(lines written at the close of the 20th century and introduction of the 21st century)

Take me home. The party is over,
the century passed—no time for a lover.
And my heart grew heavy
as the fireworks hissed through the dark
over Central Park,
past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee,

hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas.
And my heart grew heavy;
I felt its disease—
its apathy,
wanting the bright, rhapsodic display
to last more than a single day.

If decay was its rite,
now it has learned to long
for something with more intensity,
more gaudy passion, more song—
like the huddled gay masses,
the wildly-cheering throng.

You ask me—
“How can this be?”
A little more flair,
or perhaps only a little more clarity.
I leave her tonight to the century’s wake;
she disappoints me.

Originally published by The Centrifugal Eye. Keywords/Tags: new, century, wake, new year, party, Central Park, fireworks, song, display