Sometimes, when the night falls gentle over the land I cannot call home, the thought of you flows with the wind over and into me, toxic fumes on a midnight wind’s path, bleak and obscure, from that soul I called home.
Many a time, when life brings my aching seaward, to rest on the shore, I turn my mind to the dreams I’d left, on those waters, for the dreams now lost.
And as the fresh mountain winds blow on the wounds now lain bare, I find in them treason, and love struck and broken, lingering in the air on which you flew.
Sometimes, when the roses grow in a summer field, amid the stairways of an old town you knew, I find myself there picking blossoms, to be never sent, to the girl I did love, for the love she withdrew.
And often amid my nights of wandering and sitting atop the rooftop we spoke from, I notice a star shining brighter yet than her sisters, its warm radiance recalls, of the eyes that I knew.
I know not today, tomorrow, or years and lives forth, what cruel things I’ll meet, that will utter your name, and now as the moonlight passes, shines on lovers, and shines again, I find my world crueler, and ever reminding, the essence of you.
And now in my solitude, ever when the night falls gentle, I find my mind wanders, from the streets that I know, and the skies that I look upon, wanders astray, to the home that is you, and rests ever there, in somber tranquility, eyes shut and wandering, to the memory of yours.