Love is often portrayed in twos,Two wandering souls whose paths are merged,Blessed by the hands of fate.A lone wanderer will be misplaced,Too trivial to be given the attention that will sprout songs in their name.Yet, it seems to me the greatest stuff for bedtime tales;A warrior who had no one keeping the candle on,Gazing out the window awaiting their return.One whose only companion was the echo of their heartbeat,Who faced a blazing desert and turned it to a rainforest with nothing but their tears.
I have a funny way of showing it,My lips turn down when they should be up;Rather than nourish, I starveBecause thinner limbs with bulging lips are the fad.I never let my tears touch the ground but muffle them,Stifling my body's right to raze.It's never me I reach for, it's always someone else or something new,Something that shines but dims in my grasp.Tell me I'm wrong, that all that neglect was because I was coming home to me;The only time I looked at me was when I caught me unawares from the depths of parked car windows.Who will blame me for thinking I didn't love me enough.
The night is come, but not too soon;And sinking silently,All silently, the little moonDrops down behind the sky.There is no light in earth or heavenBut the cold light of stars;And the first watch of night is givenTo the red planet Mars.Is it the tender star of love?The star of love and dreams?O no! from that blue tent above,A hero's armor gleams.And earnest thoughts within me rise,When I behold afar,Suspended in the evening skies,
Youth of delight! come hitherAnd see the opening morn,Image of Truth new-born.Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,Dark disputes and artful teazing.Folly is an endless maze;Tangled roots perplex her ways;How many have fallen there!They stumble all night over bones of the dead;And feel--they know not what but care;And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers --That perches in the soul --And sings the tune without the words --And never stops -- at all --And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --And sore must be the storm --That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm --I've heard it in the chillest land --And on the strangest Sea --Yet, never, in Extremity,It asked a crumb -- of Me.