***************************************************************
The Hill Wife I. LONELINESS
Her Word
One ought not to have to care
So much as you and I
Care when the birds come round the house
To seem to say good-bye;
Or care so much when they come back
With whatever it is they sing;
The truth being we are as much
Too glad for the one thing
As we are too sad for the other here --
With birds that fill their breasts
But with each other and themselves
And their built or driven nests.
II. HOUSE FEAR
Always -- I tell you this they learned --
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away
To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They. learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.
III. THE SMILE
Her Word
I didn't like the way he went away.
That smile! It never came of being gay.
Still he smiled- did you see him?- I was sure!
Perhaps because we gave him only bread
And the wretch knew from that that we were poor.
Perhaps because he let us give instead
Of seizing from us as he might have seized.
Perhaps he mocked at us for being wed,
Or being very young (and he was pleased
To have a vision of us old and dead).
I wonder how far down the road he's got.
He's watching from the woods as like as not.
IV. THE OFT-REPEATED DREAM
She had no saying dark enough
For the dark pine that kept
Forever trying the window-latch
Of the room where they slept.
The tireless but ineffectual hands
That with every futile pass
Made the great tree seem as a little bird
Before the mystery of glass!
It never had been inside the room,
And only one of the two
Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream
Of what the tree might do.
V. THE IMPULSE
It was too lonely for her there,
And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
And no child,
And work was little in the house,
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
Or felled tree.
She rested on a log and tossed
The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
On her lips.
And once she went to break a bough
Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard.
When he called her --
And didn't answer -- didn't speak --
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.
He never found her, though he looked
Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother's house
Was she there.
Sudden and swift and light as that
The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
Besides the grave.
Robert Frost**********************************************************
The Valley's Singing DayThe sound of the closing outside door was all.
You made no sound in the grass with your footfall,
As far as you went from the door, which was not far;
But had awakened under the morning star
The first song-bird that awakened all the rest.
He could have slept but a moment more at best.
Already determined dawn began to lay
In place across a cloud the slender ray
For prying across a cloud the slender ray
For prying beneath and forcing the lids of sight,
And loosing the pent-up music of over-night.
But dawn was not to begin their 'pearly-pearly;
(By which they mean the rain is pearls so early,
Before it changes to diamonds in the sun),
Neither was song that day to be self-begun.
You had begun it, and if there needed proof--
I was asleep still under the dripping roof,
My window curtain hung over the sill to wet;
But I should awake to confirm your story yet;
I should be willing to say and help you say
That once you had opened the valley's singing day.
Robert Frost **********************************************************
The Exposed Nest You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But 'twas no make-believe with you today,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers.
'Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasking flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once--could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might out meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven't any memory--have you?--
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.
Robert FrostPosted on: November 13, 2006, 12:55:24 AM
PlaceOn the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree
what for
not for the fruit
the tree that bears the fruit
is not the one that was planted
I want the tree that stands
in the earth for the first time
with the sun already
going down
and the water
touching its roots
in the earth full of the dead
and the clouds passing
one by one
over its leaves.
from THE RAIN IN THE TREES -- Alfred A. Knopf**********************************************************
Native Trees Neither my father nor my mother knew
the names of the trees
where I was born
what is that
I asked and my
father and mother did not
hear they did not look where I pointed
surfaces of furniture held
the attention of their fingers
and across the room they could watch
walls they had forgotten
where there were no questions
no voices and no shade
Were there trees
where they were children
where I had not been
I asked
were there trees in those places
where my father and my mother were born
and in that time did
my father and my mother see them
and when they said yes it meant
they did not remember
What were they I asked what were they
but both my father and my mother
said they never knew.
W. S. Merwin**********************************************************
PURIFICATIONIn Taiwan, a child washes me in a tub
as if I were hers.
At fifteen she has tried to conceal
her age with makeup, says her name is Cher.
Across the room,
her dresser has become an altar.
Looming largest,
photos of her three children, one black,
one with green eyes, one she still nurses,
then a row of red votive candles, and in front,
a Buddha, a Christ, a Mary.
She holds my face to her breasts, rocks me.
There is blood still under my fingernails
from the last man who died in my arms.
I press her nipple in my lips,
feel a warm stream of sweetness.
I want to be this child's child.
I will sleep for the first time in days.
Doug Anderson**********************************************************
To an Iraqi infantdo you know
that your mother's nipples
are dry bones?
that her breasts
are bursting
with depleted uranium?
do ou know
that the womb's window
overlooks
a confiscated land?
do you know
that your tomorrow
has no tomorrow?
that your blood
is the ink
of new maps?
do you know
that your mother is weaving
the slowness of her moments
into an elegy?
And she is already
mourning ou?
don't be shy!
your funeral is over
the tears are dry
everyone's gone
come forward!
it's only a short way
don't be late
your grave is looking
at its watch!
don't be afraid!
We'll arrange your bones
which ever way you want
and leave your skull
like a flower
on top
come forward!
your many friends await
there are more every day
. . .
your ghosts
will play together
come on!
Sinan Antoon 
**********************************************************
The Forgotten Dialect of the HeartHow astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Eqyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
Jack Gilbert**********************************************************
A Woman Is the Heart of a HomeSome days, the heart wonders how
she ended up in such a responsible position,
moving the blood along and never
going anywhere herself,
never visiting the elbows or going
to see what the toes are doing.
The heart gets a hankering, some days,
for a new sentence to sing,
but an old rhythm thrums
and drums through her rooms,
a bass line, a syntax whose momentum
the heart is hard-pressed to overcome.
The hardest part is, the heart can't stop
even for a minute, wait for a second wind—
Someone will come running, counting
the seconds, pound on her like a door.
And the heart almost always relents,
beats, believes she should, accepts
what she's been told: That of all
the muscles, she is the strongest,
and most involuntary.
Diane Gilliam Fisher**********************************************************
The Sadness of ParentsThe sadness of fruit is like the sadness
of scissors, their blue handles cerulean on the white counter,
appearing suddenly at night, when the child's hands
that wanted them are asleep, maybe pressed together
under a cheek in the body's sidelong mutation of prayer,
and then someone throws the knife switch and the AC of dailiness
stops alternating, goes like a monster bolt through my body
and I am all heart, pumping the BFG of mother love,
a solo performance of big oafish sentimentality, wasted
on this angel, more angelic because the mosquito netting
honeycombs her into ever-smaller windows of vulnerability,
because earlier there was a scorpion in her room,
because one teddy bear earring is up, the other down,
because awake she is a center of gravity toying
between sun and black hole, crayoning out an orbit,
part of which I hate traveling, into the darkness
that is darker in its innocence.
Because some people spend their whole lives with their mouths open,
because she asked about Siamese twins
in the Nova special and whether they make clothes
for those kids, because her life happens at a run,
because she tucked a packet of sugar into her ID wallet
and rice into a Ziplog bag with her mouse
to keep the mildew from spreading, because I have no
unselfish answer to why she has to sleep alone while we
big bruisers get each other and try to pawn off
stuffed animals, creature comfort, the same dumb
bunnies she'll bring along when she wants to crawl
into bed with us, because where in carnation is it,
because asleep we don't know if sadness is softening
this fruit into the color of sunset, this angel
whose wings beat us into gods, lavish in our love,
who will fall into another day and our deals to get her
to live with less.
Barbara Ras**********************************************************
DistanceFrom up here, the insomniac
river turning in its bed
looks like a line somebody painted
so many years ago it's hard
to believe it was ever liquid; a motorboat
winks in the sun and leaves a wake
that seals itself in an instant, like the crack
in a hardly broken heart.
And the little straight-faced houses
that with dignity bear the twin
burdens of being unique and all alike,
and the leaf-crammed valley like the plate
of days that kept on coming and I ate
though laced with poison: I can look
over them, from this distance, with an ache
instead of a blinding pain.
Sometimes, off my guard, I half-
remember what it was to be
half-mad: whole seasons gone; the fear
a stranger in the street might ask
the time; how feigning normality
became my single, bungled task.
What made me right again? I wouldn't dare
to guess; was I let off
for good behavior? Praise
to whatever grace or power preserves
the living for living...Yet I see the square
down there, unmarked, where I would pace
endlessly, and as the river swerves
around it, wonder what portion of
love I'd relinquish to ensure
I'd never again risk drowning.
Mary Jo SalterPosted on: November 13, 2006, 10:07:06 PM
SilenceI am tired of all voices. Friend and fool
Have come too nearly with me to the shrine
That is the secret kept by wind and pine.
Now, when the shadowy hands of dusk are cool
About my eyes, shall silence like a god
Drive them with whips of starlight from his stairs.
Only the small grass striving in its clod,
Only the stream, that fragile moonlight bears
Like blossoms on its breast, move in this place,
All earth lies still as some beloved face
Whose dreaming mouth and deep-curved eyelids make
Bridges to God that lightest sound would break,
Towers where one word would seem iconoclast. . . .
Yet if through darkening trees you came at last,
Wearing the dew of meadows on your shoon,
And in your eyes the blessing of the moon,
I think it would be well. I think our greeting
Would be as quiet as two rivers meeting,
Which, drawn together, sparkling up in foam,
Slide into one bright seeking; and our home
Should be the furthest longing of pale seas,
Beyond the purple caverns of the trees.
Robin Hyde**********************************************************
DesertHere is no joy, to gleam like jewelled waters
Of those blue lakes that desert-goers find,
No little rain of peace, no dew of dreaming,
No chalice for the thirsting of my mind.
Bold and blue, the mirage of many palm trees,
Of mocking fountains, grows and glimmers nigh.
I stumble, clutch at ghostly sapphires, waken
Blind in the sand, with lips and fingers dry.
Are you indeed a guarded city? Wander
Old wisdoms and young ardours in your street?
Does ever Pity, in some fragrant courtyard,
Unloose the sandals from the traveller's feet?
And does your palace keep such darkling perfumes,
Such songs as haunted men since time began,
Somewhere, beyond the desert of your silence,
Beyond the last bewildered caravan?
Daylong you haunt my dream, a restless legend
Of sharp blue towers nobody can find,
Their calling bells remembered in the twilight
By men who seek no more, grown old and blind.
Does the wind lie, that leans against your bosom,
Touches your hair, and suddenly is sweet,
Where naught prevaileth but the sun's white passion,
The blind, long desert, burning for my feet?
Robin Hyde**********************************************************
Half MoonThe little pools of starlight splash
Against the poplars' slender lines;
The moon is like a golden comb,
Caught in the tresses of the pines.
Go quietly, lest unaware
You find the leafless path that leads
To where an older god than God
Makes cruel music through the reeds.
The lilies float like slender hands
Towards a satyr-trampled brink.
With crowns of oakleaves in their hair
The shouting fauns come down to drink.
Not Innocency's self shall walk
These breathless ways and shall not see
The wine-stained lips and dangerous eyes,
The swart-faced folk of Arcady;
And lovers, who have wandered through
The clover-purple evening's peace,
Have seen, deep-breasted, insolent,
The mocking loveliness of Greece —
Have heard the lawless bugles sing
From that defiant Paradise,
And glimpsed, like moonlight through the trees,
The glory of unearthly eyes.
And never shall the watcher seek
His tender human loves again;
For marble-white, with singing lips,
The woodmaids glimmer through his brain.
Go quietly. The tall gods here
Would wear your beauty like a flower,
To crush with jests and cast aside
In one unpitying, splendid hour.
Robin Hyde **********************************************************
Over the FieldsA way lies over these blue fields of sleep,
Lingers in short, sweet grasses, glimmers white
Through woods of silver birch trees, where in deep
Green quietness the winds lie hid from sight.
Meadow and stream and house of lighted window,
Each listens for the sound of passing feet,
And knows my step again, and gives me welcome
In still ways and sweet.
It is not strange at all that you should pass,
Turn back and smile, stand presently in dream
Beside the little coppice on the stream,
Where willow leaves lie tangled in the grass.
It is not strange at all that there should be
The little fallen leaves, caught in your dress,
And your voice saying forgotten things to me,
Forgotten tenderness.
Hardly I wonder that we walk together,
And talk of simple things, winds, birds, and skies,
Or that lost dreams laugh suddenly in greeting
From the dark woods in your eyes.
But standing with the shadow of dawn above us
By the grey stream's broken gleaming,
We whisper thanks to those old gods that love us,
For night, for dreaming.
Robin Hyde **********************************************************
Running WaterI sit beside a little shadowy stream,
And try to tell in words my thoughts of you.
It is in vain.
The running waters quiver, beckon, gleam,
The running water glitters through my brain,
Dragon-fly blue.
The irises are sweet with half-forgotten rain.
Their dark heads bend beneath their diadems of dew,
One petal falls, and, like a little boat,
Clings drowning where the yellow rushes float.
The waters with soft fingers draw it down.
So, one by one, my petal fancies drown,
And all my unborn words
Fall and flutter and sink, like wounded birds.
Cool waters close above them. Silver-grey,
The running waters hurry them away.
Robin Hyde **********************************************************
The Desolate StarLittle winds of dawn come gently to them,
All the living stars, the other stars.
Dim rains passionate with scents bedew them,
My brother stars,
And I go, lonely.
Steadfast and clear their shining —
Are the shadows, and the song of the wind's pining
For ever, mine only?
Ah, the winds are kind to them! They know not,
They whose flowers quicken at their heart,
Of the darkness where the life-fires glow not,
Where, set apart,
I must follow, lost
On a blue road's descending,
Which, for years that know not birth or ending,
No wayfarer has crossed.
Purple-plumed, the nesting twilight covers
All their golden windows. One last gleam
Shows me tranquil gardens, where go lovers
With eyes adream.
And I go, lonely,
Remembering lovelit faces —
Is the cry of the wind's going through empty spaces,
For ever, mine only?
Robin Hyde **********************************************************
The TreesI saw the little leaves that have
So gay a dance, their tiny veins
Skilfully painted by some grave,
Firm hand, that spared not love or pains.
And here a mystery was wrought
In secret letters hard to find;
Each leaf was perfect, each a thought
Made shapely in the dreamer's mind.
In caverns deep beneath the earth
The blind roots twist. They do not know
How their boughs rock with April's mirth,
Or feel the ripening Autumn's glow;
And the swift tides of sap that pass
From gloom to sunshine have no words
To tell the lovely scents of grass,
The plash of rain, the call of birds.
Yet still the blind, brown fingers grope,
And wrench asunder rocky bars
For no reward but some dim hope
And far-off knowledge of the stars.
Oh Life! In caverns deep as these
We build and break. In dusk profound
As any plumbed by ancient trees
We wander blindly underground;
And blindly from strange soil we drink
The very milk of mother Earth,
The secret rivers, by whose brink
Nor daffodil nor scent has birth.
Nor may we know how swiftly these
Dark tides shall gift our boughs with wings,
Shall blossom into melodies
And starry-plumed immortal things.
But, where the tree of Man grows tall
And soars to straightness from its clod,
Widen the flowers that shall not fall,
Whereof the perfume pleases God.
Robin Hyde**********************************************************
Wind of Spring Wind, blow softly to-day, lest you should lift
Ten years' careful curtain before our eyes
Wind of Spring, go lightly as petals drift;
Trouble us not with fragrance, lest we know
Passions keen as flame to walk at our side
Once again, the terror and hope and pride;
Lest again in our hearts should burn the slow
Tears that saved men shed for the ransom-price.
Touch not the grass, that better were left unstirred
Under the trees they loved, the faithful trees;
Start no song of youth's remembering bird,
Lest, like sharp blue scimitars, memories
Cleave through their quiet, dream they never so deep.
Better it is to forget, better to sleep.
Wind, you are freighted with wisdom. Lover and saint,
King and shepherd, have given you all their tale.
Flying by Nineveh town, you gather the faint
Broken songs of men that triumph or fail.
Wind agleam in the blossoms, know then the truth:
Never the dreamers builded their city of youth,
Never the spired azure towers have grown
Over the lives laid down for a cornerstone,
Never the reapers sing through Canaan won,
Field and orchard white to a risen sun.
Yet, should They listen, hearing with patient ears
All the vanished hopes of the vanished years,
Wind of Spring, adream where the petals drift,
Ask them now the rich and ultimate gift.
Seek the field where the wooden crosses stand,
Guarding England's glory in Holy Land.
Pilgrim wind, with wondering heart draw near —
Half the treasure of earth lies buried here.
Wait amid the poppies; with bended head,
Ask for faith, of the faithful-hearted dead.
Robin Hyde **********************************************************
I don't know about you guys, but I'm beginning to like this poet's style....there is this special flavor in her words....and besides she has a beautiful name..
tinkerbell
Posted on: November 14, 2006, 07:18:47 PM
Reaching The Unreachable StarI dreamed the impossible dream
I fought the unbeatable foe
I've born with unbearable sorrow
And ran where the brave dare not go.
I've righted the unrightable wrong
And transformed myself to be better by far
I've tried when my arms have been weary
To reach my unreachable star.
It's been my quest, to follow that star,
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far
I've fought for the right without question or pause,
I was willing to march into hell for my heavenly cause!
And now having been true to this glorious quest
My heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest.
And the world will be better for this
That one woman scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with her last ounce of courage
And REACHED the unreachable star.
Roxie Lynn Howard by tinkerbellPosted on: November 15, 2006, 08:58:09 PM
Open DoorHadn't known you too long,
though it seemed like a lifetime.
When you walked into my world,
your heart already belonged to another.
Your past rules your emotions,
fear had been your companion.
That road was a familiar one, for fear had cloaked a shadow over my heart, too.
So there we were, you on your side and I on mine,
our swords drawn up, ready to fight.
A suit of armor protected us from the pain;
But was it really worth the coldness it left behind?
Your entrance shook up my concrete foundation,
leaving me exposed without my wall.
You came from behind your own for an instant, only to hide behind it again.
You hid so I couldn't reach you more than you wanted me to.
If only you had known, if only you could have seen into the soul of who I really was.
Maybe then you would have seen that I was not foe, but friend;
and quite possibly the best thing that ever crossed your path.
Right from the start, I heard the click fall into place and felt the fire around us.
Thoughts of mine, not expressed aloud, would later be spoken by you.
How easily I laughed when I felt you near,
and how nice it was to smile again.
To be able to share without judgment,
to have someone accept me for who I was.
Little things you said, and little things you did,
played over and over in my mind like some endless movie.
I though I was one who didn't fall for someone so easily.
Being crushed and broken in half had prevented my heart from melting.
But now I stood, emotions in havoc,
not knowing which way to turn.
I wanted to run from you,
as fast as my legs would fly.
An invisible hand wouldn't allow that,
keeping me frozen here in my place.
I fought this force, but it was stronger than I.
Not knowing if I should have stayed,
but not knowing where to go,
I felt there was no choice left for me anymore.
I was playing the game of "A Little Too Late."
Your words were sweet candy to my ears,
but there was so much more you never said.
Those secrets you guarded,
they glowed behind your blue eyes.
Fire came from your lips,
heat from your hands.
Still there was something deeper than just attraction floating around us.
Maybe I was the only one who felt it, but maybe you did, too.
Deep down there was something going on, surely we both must have felt it,
though I wondered if you denied it more than I.
You still held onto your current life and love,
you still tried to grab them desperately
although you knew nothing could be built
upon them no more...yes you did know this
you still do.
So afraid were you to dive in without looking to see how deep,
so afraid was I to drown because I'd already jumped.
Being torn by the impulse to shake you or hug you,
my hands itched but were at a loss.
I wish you had taken your blinders off and taken a good look,
but maybe you just wanted to lie to yourself and stay blind.
Perhaps you wanted to stay hidden behind your fortress forever,
or quite possibly you just needed time to capture some courage.
You had issues and insecurities to sort out,
you had your own demons to face.
You were running scared, not knowing where you would end up
That made two of us.
Wish I could have read your mind,
for just a little while.
Then maybe I could have prepared myself,
for when you "showed me your cards"
Why would you do such a thing?
You could have taken my place for a sec
You could have tried to be on the other end of that knife yourself.
Just to see how you felt, how it hurt,
In my heart of hearts, I believe you are incapable of such torment,
though I can't be absolutely sure.
I see through your armor,
of who you appear to be.
I couldn't see inside your heart because I couldn't even see inside my own.
I didn't know what I was feeling,
except it was something fierce and foreign.
It was a road I had never traveled before,
and one I did not know where it'd lead me.
Maybe I was playing the game of a fool to believe such thoughts,
though I was certainly not one who was puffed up with self-indulgent pride.
I know who I am inside,
and I know that I could offer someone more than they've ever imagined.
I can offer someone happiness,
and I deserve that happiness twofold.
Maybe you didn't believe you deserved that happiness,
or maybe you felt I couldn't give it to you.
Perhaps you didn't want to try again,
maybe you didn't want to put your happiness before someone else's
or perhaps I was not good enough in your eyes to try.
Right then, I stood as the scared and helpless fool.
I couldn't run and I couldn't hide anymore.
All I could do was wait awhile to see how the situation unraveled.
Every minute of pleasure and pain,
brought me both joy and torture.
I could have waited and I could have granted you
the time you perhaps needed
But I could only do it for so long
Because my train was about to arrive.
And once it arrived, it was a one-way ride with no looking back.
It is true when they say only a fool rushes in,
but it's an even bigger fool who waits so long it passes him by.
Though I'm far from naive,
I know my perceptions may be inaccurate.
Regardless, I feel you are a good soul,
someone who is rare and has more beauty in him than he knows.
You've got a soft heart, much like me,
that gets easily stepped on.
Just remember,
don't become too bitter to feel,
and don't become too blind to see what might be right in front of you.
Maybe I didn't need to look any farther,
and maybe what you needed was right under your nose.
The joy I felt when I was with you,
and the ache I felt when I was not,
scared me to death.
Just remember that beauty lives deep within the heart,
embedded within the soul.
It's underneath the flaws of character,
and it hides behind the masks we all wear.
It's honest and it's pure,
it's loving and it's thoughtful.
It feels the pain of others,
it has compassion for other human souls.
It feels torment and guilt when it inflicts pain upon others,
it's helpful and it always tries.
It wants to reach out,
but is afraid it will be slapped.
It wants to hold,
but it's afraid it will only clutch the air.
It hopes and it dreams,
it has faith, but still doubts.
It creates art from the inside,
so the outside world can touch it.
It inspires and it praises,
it encourages and it supports.
It's vulnerable and acts like a scared child,
but only because of past battles.
It's part of me, and it's part of you and everybody else.
I don't know if prayers do any good,
though they've worked miracles in the past.
When it comes to the game of my heart,
those prayers never seem to have been answered.
Faith can be blind when you have a hard time,
trusting the most wished thought will come true.
Until then,
this is an open door to my heart
and a mirror to my soul.
unknown author
