If I Still Wrote
The footsteps have faded into the crowd and throngs,
The voices faint, I don’t hear them anymore.
But… If I still wrote love, on the pangs of waiting… You’d speak again.
Sleep, wakefulness, silence – no matter – will be deafeningly alive,
Of a hand held, of songs raw to this heart.
That was then. I am here – not where the weak in all of us relent…
To substitutes and void filling. To settling and tolerating.
Here, where alone and sad, have ceased to mean the same.
Where fields of bloom are ablaze – with now.
Holding my breath no more, for gains and dreams of tomorrow.
Here, where life is as it is and should be.
If I still wrote love songs – they would be about comfort.
About reveling in the majestic moment of Being Who I need to be, and who I’m born to be.
If I still wrote…
