How can I possibly bare my soul

To strangers

Who will scoff at my pain?

What have I to gain from this vanity?

My words shall remain inside

Beautiful, unuttered. 

You are comfort

You are warmth

You are the smile that lingers on

After the laugh is gone.

You are Ella Fitzgerald’s voice

And the peace of the library.

You are the smell of yellowing pages

You are the dust on old books

You are the great expectation.

Dreams

Put your little broken dream

Inside the little silver box

We’ll hand the box down

From generation to generation

Collecting all the broken dreams

And making mere anecdotes of them all

To amuse the neighbours.