The lonely soul
is a beauty.
She is quiet,
so quiet
as she whispers her way
through the noise,
through the dark,
through the rain.
Sing a sweet song to her.
Call to her
and she shall hand you
a soft and thoughtful dream.
The lonely soul
is a beauty.
She is quiet,
so quiet
as she whispers her way
through the noise,
through the dark,
through the rain.
Sing a sweet song to her.
Call to her
and she shall hand you
a soft and thoughtful dream.
The time for soft and quiet has come.
Rest.
Lay down the bones of sorrows past.
Yesterday is a hush,
no longer ringing her angry bell.
She knows it true.
The time for soft
and quiet
has come.
The sweet and quiet of life is where my soul belongs.
The essence of a strawberry.
The taste of the softest kiss beneath a swaying tree.
It is not all that I am, this sweet and quiet that calls me.
But it is my favourite place to be.
My favourite aspect of everything.
I am here in the quiet, knowing I am home.
I am the same, in this place, as the windy trees
and the sunset that melts across the bay.
This quiet.
It is the porcelain wail of a newborn child, it is the aching
of a freshly broken heart.
I know it well.
I know this place of quiet so well.