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.

.

.