Seventeen Syllable Stories.

Tiny bits of truth

The words so rarely spoken

Hidden in three lines

Through the fog and gray

There is only more darkness

Where your hope gets lost

There is beauty still

when the world seems cold and grey

in the clear, crisp sky

If only each day

Could hold all the quietude

Of weekend mornings

Time might ebb and flow

But years never cease to turn

And the spiral grows

Years build onto year

Until time loses meaning

Or we lose it first

In the endless sky

Hope and promise lay in wait

Just beyond our reach

Just another day

But a chance to start anew

To try, and try again

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