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this is a true story. i was there that cold november on the waterfront.


songstress

my dear, you could come drifting in here
like some seaside waif
who frequents the tavern at sunset
for her welcome and a friendly pat
sometimes a dollar for her song

fey hoyden who sits snugly by the fire
singing of familiar and haunting sadness
or, cheers the motley loners
with songs of wit and wonder
(on these days she pays her way)

and haven't you noticed
that i am the tavern company
nutritious denizen of dark truths
fashioning with love and cunning art
a key for you to fit your heart

daily here you bare your sadness
shine your forgetful joy
sip rare love from tender lips
here where a magic ether flows
from finger tips
to loose the knots of tangled woes

if this is what you wanted
why hold back?
surrender wholly
and if it must be
through choking tears, you find relief
so be it, there's an end to it.

an end to sparrowing a larks song
or squeaking out the nightingale
now, in the open, you may
grasp the sunlight
the sunlight
that turns the hay to gold

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