The Song And The Dance
His face is stone now,
In the glittering, silent song,
He is alone now,
And the onlycomfort is the faceless throng.
He sees the music fade and the laughter die,
Because he knows where his heat lies.
No Pheniox from the ashes, no hope reborn,
Life for this one now is grief's wailing horn.
As he stands alone on the floor,
No partner to grace his quiet hands,
He finds the depth of pain and grief.
He comes out a man.
From the throng come another girl,
Another beauty, yet different from his wife,
He cries softly on her shoulder,
She understands, she's been his friend all along,
The Dance of love and life now moves on,
even as he takes her hand.
Into the song.
Untitled
She was lost not found,
I was without hope or ground.
She stood beside me though all
and I layed beside her through her fall.
She knew me and I knew her,
we knew all of each other
what we are and what we were,
her name, my memory, does stir.
a small smile, a quaking hand,
this moment again,
my soul will never stand,
because from life she is banned.
She is dead. Am I dead too?
who else will be my angel,
who else will pull me through,
and if I found one, would I want them to?
I bury my feelings,
in a wave of half smiles and bitter tears,
because she conquered all my fears.
The least I could do was bury the clothes she wore.
and when I die, she will be waiting.
On a distant shore.
The harper plays,
his notes so quiet against the silent crowd.
His notes ripple like the sea,
a Melancholy tune plays and lays a soft shroud.
His voice rises, as if to simply speak,
but this music goes beyond what words convey,
and makes children sill in their mothers arms,
and lovers weep.
Because this is their story,
this is their tune,
Of a boy and a girl finding love so new,
and seeing it fall through.
Of a boy it sings, lost and alone,
forced by his own actions, to atone,
Of graveyard visits it tells,
and the sunlight on peoples own, little hells.
A new sadness rides in on the waves that this music takes,
and to the foundations, this boy it shakes.
A son unknown for years ungrieved and unatoned,
This the crowd is shown.
The Crowd weeps for the baby unborn,
the people smile at enduring love,
Though death has carried them on.
And the player, the poet cries,
for this grief is his.
and his alone.