OP. IV

There is a song that is sung
where the melodies depart;
the mind sets apart
the man from the lark
where:
in the wilds of time,
the plans and the lines
of promises played
and dreams long delayed,
are erased from the day of a Lifetime’s dismay.

This song is still sung
by the heart and the lung;
gleaned from the will of an optimist’s hum
where:
in a world largely lit
by the darkness and grit
of the cynic’s sharp tongue,
the melodies live on.

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