the song of a bleeding heart

The clouds go by
In disarray.
A lonely mind
In troubles parts.
The world turns still
In solitude.
I sing the song
Of a bleeding heart.

I fell for an gem, so bright and fair.
It shone in the night, in moonlight glared.
Its voice was soft, it took me whole.
Its song so sweet, enraptured my soul.

I placed my heart in a foreign hand.
How could I quell my feelings' tide?
My heart, my soul, was taken whole.
How could I turn myself aside?

Though hope was high, and life seemed fine.
My heart was torn from that foreign hand.
For I was to see her walk away.
To take the arms of another man.

What coloured scarf hangs not on its paired coat?
What finished diamond on murky waters float?
What mare of wings to the world can convince?
What princess walks the streets without her prince?

I must have been blind,
For I had not seen.
How those arms entwined,
In hers had been.

What fair use to climb to the peak.
The rose had already been picked.

The clouds went by
In disarray.
This lonely mind
Now troubled parts.
The world turned still
In solitude.
Can you hear the song
Of a bleeding heart.


Notsnhoj

the loneliness of night

I am getting sick of these nights. They are cold and lonesome. It has been awhile since I have spoken. The hinges of my jaw have turned rusty. I would think it hard for any man to try pry a gap between my lips. The air grows stale within. For the first time, I wake alone. I wash up alone. I walk to school alone. I sit alone. I learn alone. I study alone. I go home alone. I stay at home alone. I cook alone. I eat alone. I wash up alone. I sleep alone.

My life is routine, carried out and accomplished alone. How I wish for a neighbour. Then, the darkness would not be so cold and lonesome. I am tired.

Yet I wait for the better tomorrow. The better tomorrow that will come.


Johnston

the weariness of day

I am entitled to a small portion of the sky from my study chair. Zeus must be panting hard, for the clouds are racing by. Like a screensaver, they come in from the left, and then they are gone. Yet, that is all the movement that my eyes are entitled to. The brick walls outside are still. The branch hanging over is still. My room is still. The air in stale. Somehow, I feel as though this hollow world is caving in on me.

I sit here, indulging in the texts of laws and monetary sciences. I wish the world would move. Then, I would not feel so stale inside. The days are wearisome.

But there is hope beyond. I can wait.


Johnston