The works of old are weary,
and weakened at the seams;
filled with only anguish
and long forsaken dreams.
The pen hardly trembles,
speaking softly to the page
of words that were forgotten
by the turning of the age.
An image of perfection
butts its stubborn head,
obscuring inner beauty
with foolish hopes instead.
The mind argues loudly
the murmurs from the deep
from the hour of waking
till the moment of sleep.
What peace will e'er subdue this;
this quarrel, hidden well?
The heart merely wonders
for only God can tell. |