I miss the things that once were
The simple beauty of the nights
The delight of a babe’s laughter
The honesty in his eyes
The peace of solitude . . .

Now in the middle of the night
I find no peace in loneliness
I am hunted by the things that once were
Or perhaps, by the things that I thought once were

How did I mistake feebleness for simplicity?
And brute callousness for blunt honesty?
The days have come when roses drop petals – revealing hidden thorns
For the sharp, fine things of pain they are

Alas, stung, I am unrelenting in my search
For like the faint elusive strains of a sweet haunting melody
The things that once were lure me onward, unrelenting in my search
Somehow, alone in the hunt, I am somewhat comforted
Within my heart, I hear whispers saying . . .
That the things that once were, still are, and still will be – if only we believe.

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