Monday, May 09, 2005
the enchanted lyrist gathered her thoughts,
though little a word she could write.
never a time could she find a sentence,
that would end in a rhyme.
the lyrist, too used to woe and lachrymose,
mired in melancholy;
tasked with stringing a happy tune,
never a hint of glee.
she looked up upon the heavens upon,
for divine gifts she asked.
once too many times she had seen,
how people around are masked.
the skies were blue,
the plains were full, and the forests burst with life.
once more the lyrist made herself believe,
for once more, on empty she'll drive.
for a cause that she envisages,
for the song never sang.
for every dark rhyme that saw the light,
onto all hope she'll hang.
