Can you see his face in the window?
Tears streaming from his eyes.
His hair is falling across his shoulders,
And lives with the smell of burnt rice.
His cheeks are swollen with sorrow,
And his nose blue with the cold,
Quivering lips and shaking head,
That once was known to be bold.
The ferocity of him has gone,
Withered away in some gone year,
The spirit that had played his way
Into the town is no longer here.
The glory has gone from his heart,
Only pure white tears are cried,
With the spark gone from within him,
He seems no longer alive – he has died.
Somewhere inside I know him,
His true self lies elsewhere beneath,
It is hidden away strongly by sorrow,
The very thing in which he had a belief.
The mourner has grown so weak,
Once hazel eyes are now deep red,
From blood-shot veins bursting again,
The pain came from within instead.
In instead of out, form the hurt and pain,
This world commonly gives birth to,
Not from this his sorrow comes,
But from another hurt heart so blue.
She had tenderness, warming,
Beautifully warming for he,
But because of a fault while he loved her,
She was made to leave him, oh she.
So here I do stand beside him,
My arm dangling beside his thin self,
Shaken as he is with weeping,
And into my pockets I delve,
Where I find the long-lost bar,
Of half eaten darkest chocolate,
That we ate the day it got colder,
And the icicles grew on the gate.
So many memories are attached,
To this single delight of pretty life,
We laugh and we forget for a while,
The blunt cause of all this strife.
And then so we begin to walk,
And the snow begins to fall,
Our hearts are bounding in joy,
That is blocking against sadness wall.
This is the spirit we always share,
One of friendship and happiness,
It is one that only we posses,
Full of figures of speech – harmless.
What can I say to comfort he,
As the snow crunches under our toes,
I do not care for him like a fancy
Except that how people write prose.
The same old movie is dug out,
And is played again and again,
Our voices lift as we shout out,
The faults that were so obvious then,
We pick ourselves up and move on,
To the kitchen where we go,
Find the lemonade and the raspberries,
To take back the joy we lost long ago.
As I write this I know we had good times,
But uncertainty will always be so,
For I wonder with all of my heart,
Will I ever grow?
