Pink Balloon

These days, whenever I come looking
that scar scribed in your soul is brilliant
and blinding. There's no finding light,
no gleam refracting the answers I need
if I’m to understand just what to heed.

Now that the closing curtain turned in early,
the theater is quiet, actors have all grown surly.
But you can't believe, what you haven't seen,
you told your friends, and family
now, how can you go home without
your pink balloon.

In that scar I see
your humility.
You don’t know how truly blue you are.
But I know, down deep
that the antidote you seek,
is sleeping right beside you in bed.
It's all in your head.

    Little arms, ever reach...
    Little teeth, slur her speech...
    Little hair, tied in knots...
    Little sense in singing...
    she’s already sound asleep.

In Little dreams, you are the face;
the sun smiling down on the shy Little place.
Wherever she is, wherever she’s been
ever and ever she’s listening,
to Little words, to Little tears
of Little hopes and Little fears.
But her heart has such a brittle peace
with your tossing and turning.

When you keep your sorry glance behind,
a smile so rehearsed I cannot find
the missing piece to the worn out puzzle
you’d given up on so long ago.
How can it be the way its meant,
if you never know
that within every breath upon your sighing,
within every flash of that lightning smile,
the hidden picture here is so worthwhile.

In that scar I see,
my humanity.
In those eyes I see the sun.