the songs we sing in times of joy
are written in the dark,
when hope betrays the moment's mood
of helplessness so stark
that he must write the grandest things,
hoping they come true-
(for they are all he's ever had)
and yet, they seldom do.

These threads of thoughts are melodies
to dreams he's always had-
yet what he'd had in all of these,
he'd never understand;
and so he'd never come to know
of anything he'd want
he'd try in vain and try again
to find with what hes got:

a pen and page and sorrow plenty
and hope that he'll soon know
of something more, of anything
beyond his simple lows;

and so the songs he writes of hope
are written in the dark
on pages stained with silent cries
that swiftly come apart
when his laments have lost their way
from wand'ring in the night;
they've left the moon to find the day
he emerges in the light;

and back and forth the pend'lum swings
from sun to moon to sun;
but understand there lives a light
no matter where it's swung.

05/29/2007

Author's Note: i'd really appreaciate constructive crits on this one; it felt a lot more cohesive as i wrote it, but now i read it over and it seems a scattershot of ideas; and i don't know if the message comes through. also, i'm aware that i change tenses in the second stanza; i'm still trying to work that into not being a problem. anyway, help appreciated. thanks!

Posted on 05/29/2007
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