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Poem

I muse a song that songs have known,
and often of it sing
what of waste? what of want?
and of desired things,
I tell a tale no man has known,
and every man same
in the blood of human life
all hearts, they beat the same
speak of drear and weary thought
and rise thee from thy grave
oh the things we poets lost--
so often short of change

ah, the signs that hold us so
bound, we are, to fate
myth we cannot seem to grasp
held to that we state
legend--how it holds us so
even as the moon
we, the sea of hope and dream
pulled away too soon...
and the shore, so very close
each time, we stake our lot
we fall as once upon a dream
so short of this we sought
but once again, our eyes, so still
bereft of light, remain
and seeing there the cliffs again
a seabound soul, we gain
to toss and turn a-thousand nights
to lie awake in doubt
to hope beyond a weathered shade
of days, we drift about

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