CRY MY HEART
Deafening is not knowing the secrets in the fog
Untold and full of grey
Your emblems, mementos, your veiled souls of yesterday
I slant your portrait starry, your spirits unportrayed
You're no making of another
No maiden made of clay
Brushed beneath your bare flesh, clouds ripple from within
Hidden, this pulse, it beats below your skin
Covered by your kindness I hear a memory's hymn
A voice of winter's wind that whispers faraway
Of children's far off echoes, as they scream and play
A ring of crickets crossing a grass covered lay
Of laughter in the treetops
The wet cruel ravel of weeps along the way
Your selfhood saves the page of a wordless former day
Your stories, your histories, your ashes still alive
Both joys and sins denied, slowed seasons simplified
The beasts they wake again, hostile, towards me
Yet softly set aside
I fear them now and then, as you guard my glassy pride
What's in the book you read?
What's in the youth you hide?
"Nothing," you say, "there's nothing worth the tide. My heart is cut in two.
There's then, there's now, and there's only me and you.
The quietness you sense is a poison's residue.
Benign by our held hands. A blur in our love's view."
"This book, this page - this page I save reads true
But the words, to me, the words are nothing new.
Each page is precious years. Each letter, etched, forever through and through.
Rest, my dear, grow old within my heart, for there's only me and you.
There's only me and you"