Just a Story
As I make my morning drive,
tired and enjoying music as on each day,
some spell the weather seems to contrive,
a wistful melancholy I oft keep at bay.
Left, a wave of fog spills o'er the trees,
right, one of the year's last snows glistens;
all this my muse through sleepy eyes sees,
and to more than the soft trumpet it listens.
My cry gone unanswered for far too long,
that call for another it too today hears.
From there the disquiet, marked so by song,
from there the malaise, marked so by tears.
I've heard tell of a feeling one has grasped
the true meaning of a sweet song's words,
the first time one's ears are upon it clasped
after romance beckons and with hope girds.
What, instead, when alone and hearing
the same refrains, same concepts;
when their promise you are never nearing
and their absence your mind never accepts?
What, when yearning to so dearly yearn,
longing just to have one to long for;
what do you call that ache to learn
of that which those songs do explore?
"You never know when you're gonna meet someone
and your whole wide world in a moment comes undone",
a favorite claims, so sure that thread's already spun,
that there even is such a thing as the vaunted 'one'.
It's the most beautiful dream so many hold,
that all of us can one day have love's glory;
in film, book, and song such is foretold -
I only hope it's not just a story.
|