The Drawer of Unspoken Songs

The Drawer of Unspoken Songs

i didst sing of sorrow, soft and base,

in the chill of the night’s bitter cold blow.

“i loveth thee,” i hath cried—guilt in mine own chest,

a sooth didst confess, yet not at rest.

thee wast not near, not stage-side near,

but far hence, too far to heareth.

not in the crowd, not by mine own side,

but didst seat home, our hearts divide.

still i singeth of love, of grace,

while longing shows upon mine own visage.

f’r what i did giveth, i’ve nev’r known—

nay guiding light to calleth mine own own.

oh, how i yearn’d to just beest true,

to speaketh the teen i at each moment kneweth.

but at which hour mine own time to voice arriv’d,

mine own song hath grown lost—barely didst survive.

didst scatter notes, didst confuse, didst betray,

forgotten lines in silence did lay.

rewritten not, just tuck’d hence,

to wait f’r time to waste, decay.

f’r bugs to bite, f’r ink to blur,

f’r once-bold words to loseth their stir.

yet still i singeth, with aching soul,

mine own voice did dress sweet in soft control.

but underneath the tender trace—

a heart did weigh down in dark disgrace.

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