The songbird sings a lovely song,
the spring is in her tune.
And though the flowers flex their powers,
her voice is the brightest bloom.

The songbird sings a lonely song,
it’s raining in her soul.
The long years and buckets of tears
have taken quite the toll.

The songbird sings a bitter song,
the world can be very cruel.
It took her best, it smashed her nest,
and made her feel the fool.

The songbird sings an ugly song,
she doesn’t see her beauty.
The world’s lies clouded her eyes –
her flaws are all she sees.

The songbird sings of sweet rebirth,
for all her dreams came true.
Loved at last – the clouds have passed;
only the sky is blue.

There’s someone that I like
I want to ask them on a date –
My courage says, “Ask tonight.”
My caution says, “Wait.  Wait.”

I stare at her
’til I can’t see straight.
My courage says, “Ask tonight.”
My caution says, “Wait.  Wait.”

The sight of her
spikes my heart rate.
My courage says, “Ask tonight.”
My caution says, “Wait.  Wait.”

I overhear her talk
about a Valentine’s date.
My courage says, “Ask – what?”
My caution says, “Wait…wait?”

How could it be?
Was I too late?
My courage says, “I tried.”
My caution says, “Too late.”

Two unpaired lovers,
out searching every night –
looking for someone
with which to share their light.

But the dark is dangerous
and monsters stalk the streets,
taking bites of halfling hearts
and leaving them with teeth.

Some victims do not make it;
their light fades away.
Vampirized by the experience,
they prowl in turn for prey.

Now two hearts are hunting,
but the game has changed:
one seeks to share a life,
the other to share pain.

My weary heart,
beset by clouds,
the rain threatening
to crash down.

My regal heart,
stoic and proud,
bearing the sword
and offering the crown.

My gentle heart
cries aloud,
embracing the pain
as he falls down.

My heart divine
parts the clouds,
swinging the sword
and wearing the crown.

Behind each and every face
hides a quiet, secret place
of happiness and sorrows,
dreams of yesterdays and tomorrows,
which we pass by, unaware,
with our protagonistic airs.

But ours is not the only story,
nor ours the only dreams of glory.
Each and every blessed day
we drift by heroes on their way
to slay dragons, to right wrongs,
each champion of their own songs.

When you’re at the end of the line,
when you’ve lost your sparkle and your shine,
when you’re anything and everything but fine –
You are not alone.

When you’ve lost your way,
when the hours stretch into days,
when all you do is pray and pray –
You are not alone.

When the pain gets too great,
when you’re trembling from all the hate,
and wondering when it will abate –
You are not alone.

We know those roads well,
and the stories we could tell…
We’ve sinned and saved,
fought and slaved,
terrified and brave,
chaste and laid.
So when you’ve lost the light of day,
listen well to what I say:

You are not alone.

The sun and the moon,
the day and the night,
the subtle power play
between darkness and light.

Light’s lauded eternal,
painted in white,
and awarded a purity
that is not its right.

Shade stands ashamed,
accused, and accursed,
perpetually known
only for its worst.

But there are no heroes or villains,
no right and no wrong,
there’s much more to hear
in the world’s song.

Recall moonlit walks,
making love in the dark,
and how the daylight
makes our horrors more stark.

Life’s rarely simple,
there’s a rainbow of hues;
take a moment and examine
those within you.

The sway of the tide,
the pulse of the land,
there’s a rich complexity
to the powers at hand.

So listen and learn,
a student once more,
arms spread wide,
and ready to soar.

The words of the divine
fill more than pages,
more than buildings of wood and stone.

They are in every crack and creek,
every groan and every peek.
They roam the deserts, mountains, moors,
roam the valleys, forests, shores.

Long ago they courted sages
who copied them to sacred pages;
bound in leather, shared with all:
rich and poor, great and small.

The words, however, continued on –
inspiring new stories, songs.
A living legacy, born again,
with each generation who found them.

And God is still speaking, to those who would hear,
with open hearts and open ears,
while zealots guard, with deadly swords,
the molted husks of living words.

She had such kinds hands,
like a whisper in the night,
like a swallow whose in flight.

She had such kinds hands,
gentle, and yet firm,
teaching all that she had learned.

She had such kind hands,
coaxing gasps and groans,
coaxing sighs and moans.

She had such kind hands.
I pray that I will not forget
the kindest hands I’ve ever met.