Moonlighthas this specialabillityto wash awayblemishes,imperfections,leaving you stripped,bare,naked;with nothingbutthe pure thruth:the truthof your heart
And goesAnd goesAnd never getsAny betterNor does it getAny worseThat’s what it isThat’s what my life isThat’s how it’s always beenThat’s how it always will beAnd I can't break the cycleNo matter how hard I trySo could someoneAnyonePlease help me?Because sometimes
It can be hard to find uglinesswhen resolution was never given.There will always be a beautywhen your closure never came.There's a simple beauty in the rawness of woundsRed around the edges, weeping, bleedingeyes are but wounds to never healA cut to never close.There's tragic honesty in nostalgiaand there's nothing in it that means history;longing is a nostalgic dream,a tragedy of needs.There's something to be said about the color yellowOf all emotional colors, it is the worstit's the color that tinges photographs, newspapers,it's the shade that fades your memories.
What if I just up and left?What if I walked away?What if I said "I love you",and said no more todday?What if I didn't care?What if I was indifferent?What if I said "Whatever",and I really, truly meant it?What if I loved you?What if I did care?What if I said so,but you only just stared?What if you loved meWhat if you couldn't say?What if you wanted to,but the words wouldn't obey?
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,And little mouse that leaves its hole at eveNimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong,And grasshoppers in merry moods still wearThe short night weary with their fretting song.Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bankThe yellowhammer flutters in short fearsFrom off its nest hid in the grasses rank,And drops again when no more noise it hears.Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
The Winters are so short --I'm hardly justifiedIn sending all the Birds away --And moving into Pod --Myself -- for scarcely settled --The Phoebes have begun --And then -- it's time to strike my Tent --And open House -- again --It's mostly, interruptions --My Summer -- is despoiled --Because there was a Winter -- once --And al the Cattle -- starved --And so there was a Deluge --And swept the World away --But Ararat's a Legend -- now --And no one credits Noah --