I picked up nothing in the dark last night,
Grasping at bars of lamplight on the stairs.
Illusion. Disappointment. Amusement.
To pick up nothing in the light each day
Feeding an appetite that is never satisfied.
Stop. Let the eyes of the soul see through
The motions of a life of sawdust,
Of quiet desperation.
Let the song in my heart be loosed to fly
And see its reality.