Incomplete Tales.

Should a singer lose her voice,

her sentiments still be heard?

Or the poet that no longer writes,

his thoughts still be displayed?

The lover cries alone,

yet her love doesn't leave her.

I wonder if death knows,

I've been known to run away.

The singer lives on stage

yet her home is on the hill.

What will be the picture,

if the photographer's blind?

This life revolves around the sun,

it too sleeps without worry.

I've wanted to live near light,

but the night has my favours.

Like the lover, sacrifice is easy to make;

what does the heart know?

I'm evolving by the second,

next day; I'll be different human.

I wonder where Sunday got her stature,

seven involves only so many.

The mother's children have all died,

but the mother, she's still a mom.

My love doesn't know me,

would tell by him loving other women.