I've Been

As the mute screams of the broken hearted
Muffle the words of the faithful lover
And the emotional arthritis warns
Of a coming storm,
She sits and stares, seeing nothing
And comes prepared for an empty cornfield
But finds only ancient scrolls
Reminding her she is not the first to feel.

An empty life, a dream remains a dream,
A scattered scrapbook in a box under the bed,
An uprooted tree for the third time,
Digging dirt to find the liquid in the deep
Is an ulterior motive to spiritual gain.

The tears are shadows deep behind the eyes;
Somewhere near the pineal gland
They gather their forces
And march a rhythm with the heart
Blowing in with the east wind
Over the parched ground and the broken stalks of corn
And silently, silently, they come.