It is a sad song

It is a sad song

But has joy at its heart

When sung with love.

I hear its melody, everywhere.

In the longing cry

Of a barn owl,

Floating in darkness,

Searching for a mate.

The rustle of its wings

Too gentle a boogaloo

For friend or foe to hear.

The breeze barely

Ruffling its fine feathers

On its night flight,

Such an easy drift.

Alive in a way

We can only dream of.

Not even then.

If only sleep

Would fulfil its promise

To quell the rise

Of white noise,

But that music plays on regardless.

Squeezing harmonies

Until grated voices,

Scrape finer memories raw.

Verses once loved

Take on new meanings.

Words can bring

Solace to the lonely heart,

But over time

They cut more deeply,

The pain much sharper still.

Distant words

Though well remembered

Are but insistent echoes,

Flayed by repetition.

A thin thread of old clichés

Stretched across an open wound

Close to bursting.

A disparate collection

Of splintered words,

Jagged, broken phrases.

The bits and pieces

Roughly stitched together,

Barely binding.

As absence

Threatens to pull them apart.