Unanswered
Posted: Thu Feb 13, 2014 8:12 pm
Unanswered
What happens to the laughter
that brings music to my soul?
Does its echo live forever,
or wither in the cold
of a sister’s cruel affliction;
a lover’s broken heart;
an old man unremembered;
a family torn apart?
What happens to my thinking
when I give myself to sleep?
Are my thoughts alive and waiting
to be dredged from places deep?
Do promises I fail to keep
bed down with lies I’ve told;
with thanks ungiven, friends ignored
and rights I don’t uphold?
And yesterdays …where do they go
when each day brings new dawn?
And where are all tomorrows kept
while waiting to be born?
Where does goodness come from,
and holiness and love?
The charity and kindness
we need a measure of?
And does there dwell within the heart
of every living man,
the promise to attempt to do
the very best he can.
To make the most of what his God
has bountifully stored
in each and every one of us;
the promise – the reward.
And when my memory of a poem
and all the words that once did roam
through thoughts and dreams is lost to me,
will they still live? Will they still be?
Will they still yearn for, reach for,
a reason to be born?
Or will they lie unheralded,
Unread, unknown, unmourned?
What happens to the laughter
that brings music to my soul?
Does its echo live forever,
or wither in the cold
of a sister’s cruel affliction;
a lover’s broken heart;
an old man unremembered;
a family torn apart?
What happens to my thinking
when I give myself to sleep?
Are my thoughts alive and waiting
to be dredged from places deep?
Do promises I fail to keep
bed down with lies I’ve told;
with thanks ungiven, friends ignored
and rights I don’t uphold?
And yesterdays …where do they go
when each day brings new dawn?
And where are all tomorrows kept
while waiting to be born?
Where does goodness come from,
and holiness and love?
The charity and kindness
we need a measure of?
And does there dwell within the heart
of every living man,
the promise to attempt to do
the very best he can.
To make the most of what his God
has bountifully stored
in each and every one of us;
the promise – the reward.
And when my memory of a poem
and all the words that once did roam
through thoughts and dreams is lost to me,
will they still live? Will they still be?
Will they still yearn for, reach for,
a reason to be born?
Or will they lie unheralded,
Unread, unknown, unmourned?
