By Anonymous
I’ll Sing to You
In your backyard, a summer night,
we sit and talk and dream and hope.
In your backyard, in dying light,
warm wind upon our face and souls.
Imagine your soft hand in mine;
in your backyard we talk slowly,
your voice a soft sad song of lies,
haunting, enticing, catching me.
Your eyes a wild blue stormy sea,
A tempest raging quietly,
Against your warm, bright beauty.
We indulge in timeless ideals,
and talk about our later lives,
anticipating future joy;
a music in your voice and song,
a hymn known just to you and I.
You joke that I should sing along,
but sadly smiling I reply,
my voice pales to your lullaby.
But I relent to eyes deep blue,
and say: one day I’ll sing to you.
In your bedroom one starry night,
we lay down closely side by side.
In your bedroom, the moon so bright,
we peer into each other’s eyes.
I whisper promises vainly,
you whisper lies seductively,
as our gazes fix and noses touch.
Souls intwined so intimate,
I part my lips and close my eyes.
Your kiss transcendent, soft and blue,
I dedicate my heart and mind
to your symphony, I’ll sing to you.
In your car one somber morning,
Your tears pierce your unhappy face.
In your car a dark foreboding,
I comfort you but as a friend;
you surely lost that starry night.
Does he marvel at your bright eyes?
Does he make you feel strong and loved?
I lift you up so you can fall,
crying, screaming on the inside.
It has been songless, fragile days,
seeing gray but no more blue.
But even as you slip away,
remind me that I’ll sing to you.
On your porch one brisk evening,
the wind foreboding, chilling sounds.
I knock with pressure, urgency,
to make sure that your blue resounds.
You crack the door, your eyes break me,
a fog glosses your white, blank stare.
You coldly ask me what I want,
I plead for your blue eyes, gold hair;
your tempest, playful heart and mind,
refined tastes, music, art, design.
A tear drops from your dead, gray eyes,
from crevaces of emptiness,
you fill with chemicals and lies.
Goodbye, you say, and shattered now,
I will not ever sing to you.
In a church pew, the first snowfall,
I mourn your fall and vainly pray.
In a church pew, I hear your call,
but only in my grieving mind.
Sadness swells the weeping halls.
You left, and took with you a piece,
my heart a broken, sighing wretch.
No more blue and deep emotions,
no more profound thoughts and songs.
The temptation of straight and fast,
the unknown beyond what is true,
you journeyed there and left the past;
alas, I cannot sing to you.
