I suppose I find comfort,
In an empty hollow bed,
For years could roll,
While consistently,
I know where to place my head.
And should the dancing shadows,
Be my only light,
It go,
Accustom to such darkness,
My heart shall surly grow,
And if the warmth come only,
From tattered wool and sheet,
least my heart cannot broken,
only left as ever meek.
And if such soul should wander,
Through life, abrupt, alone.
At the very least,
It holds a place,
To call it’s very own.
