Yearning

Oh, troubled heart of mine
you sit by the straight and narrow path by the hour.
Listing to one side and then the other,
you confound the richness of this life
through the spilling of some sacred blood.

Oh, lonely heart, how you yearn for the peace
that only another soul could bring.
Some weary traveller who by day wanders the path alone,
yet by night allows his empty soul to wander;
is that what you would want?

Would you consume the flesh and blood
of some peaceable prince, only to turn
and forget the sacred action, and let yourself be commonplace?
But there are some hands that reach toward you,
and you dwell in a half-life, not knowing how to reach back.

Oh, weary heart, why tire of the pain?
So you see others fly like birds,
having wings which you do not,
what difference would it make to you?
You sit by the side of the roadside alone.

You are waiting for some lasting affection
to come your way and save you.
You’re waiting to feel desired and loved,
and when you do and give your heart away,
it turns out they can’t give back after all.

You are a lover of the people,
you would be a dancer and a shaker,
but you learned too late that you were meant
to belong in someone’s home, always falling by the wayside,
never quite able to stop the flow of blood,

falling from a wound you didn’t know you had.
Someone saw you, and gave you eyes like mankind sees.
Still clouded, you see better than before,
and realise you were deceived:
You were loved . . .

If only you weren’t so afraid.
If only you could have had a chance
to take something for yourself.
If only you’d known the danger of loving someone
who couldn’t love you back . . .

Still, you haven’t learned, I see . . .