Words

I wrote a lot, Of love and of hate

Of summer's spring, Of winter's fall

Of my past's present, Of my future's fate

And stories of men, some near, some far

Words of passion, Words of devotion

Of the lust for heaven, Of the fear of hell

Of mice and men, and of sheep

Of how we live and die, to someone else's beat

The whispers of the wind, The sighs of the sea

The babble of brooks and rambles of the wood

The sounds of silence, and the silence of strife

I wrote them all down, scratches on a sheet of white

Wrote a word or two

Of the yearnings in my heart,  and of the stirring of my soul

Of playing my part, knowing my role

And few about wishing on a star, dreaming for a bit more. 

Then I bundled it all in a song

And sang it to you, hoping that you'd sing along

But oh, and how I wish this weren't true

In the end, they were just words to you.