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in the morning when you wake alone to find
that nothing is or ever was as fond
as the dreams you keep before light shines
somehow you admire what is always gone
but you hold on
and in all the days, to your eyes blind
colours are sewn as the sun is drawn
from lonesome sea with which all is entwined
and depraved of pain once hope forgone
but you hold on
for all the forms such hope may bind
a sunrise, a flower, a mountain, a fawn
I dare admit heaven defined
on solid ground we've walked upon
for you
to hold on to
Wes Thompson
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Wes Thompson
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