there are things yet seen...
these are paintings of an artist's brush...
there stories yet to be told...
at the tip of the lonely writer's pen...
there is a melody yet heard...
settled upon the composer's sheets...
there is a love yet relished...
waiting for the deserving to claim it...
there is a woman alone...
waiting for you to just come home...
there is a man at the edge...
hoping you wait...
there is a world of questionable sanity...
inkling to transform
transform the woman alone and the man on the edge so the love may be relished and the story be told, that the melody be heard and the truth be seen... a truth that may hurt and sting... yet truth by all means... in verity it stands.
but the sands of time will always drain and we turn over the vessel and we begin a new leap...
Dear John.
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