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"