Saturday, March 19, 2016

W.B.



























welcome old friend,
come in from the cold,
rest awhile;
I recognize your voice,
it is one I have heard
many times before,
the accent
was a little different
then,
from what it is now,
but still,
it is the same;
we have talked often,
you and I,
during that soft
and painful transition,
as I tried to hold on
to the dark and dying night,
and you patiently waited
for the pale morning dawn,
you must tell me old friend,
have you found that precious
light of a new day,
for which you waited
and searched
for so long?
ah well;
nor could I
hang onto the darkness,
but what difference does it make?
it is in the trying
that matters most,
you and I,
were never born
to live in the black
or the white;
it is the cracks in between,
where we belong.
.

.

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