when night cuts through the deepest stars,
and soldiers cannot brave the march,
the encore cry’s a silent voice,
the table’s laid with Hobson’s choice.
when paper’s out and ink’s run dry,
the last note ends the lullaby,
there’s nothing then to bargain for,
what’s left is empty handed, raw.
and all I feel,
at depths so keen,
is the break that burns
at the heart of me.
when cries ring out but echo cold,
‘gainst walls of stone, a story old,
there’s nothing there can bear the truth,
the shift moving inside of you.
and all I breathe,
and all I weep,
is the yearn to turn
a heart to me
and what I’m told and what I know,
is this journey’s mine to take alone,
the echoes cold that still deny
are preying here right by my stride.
so I’ll take the cries
and I’ll take the pain,
and I’ll weave them through
a core left slain.
and every step
I place a vow
to listen to
the child’s song now.
those echos sent
to distant parts,
I’ll take them back
and mend this heart.