Somewhere it is written,it's anyone's guess
Perhaps by one who wished more and found less
That those who stand in the pouring rain
Seeking a hand only search in vain.
To those who seek shelter in the open air
And continue to swelter when the sun isn't there
To those who awaken to silent screams
Visibly shaken by violent dreams
To those in search of the fruit of life
Only to find the tip of the knife
To those whose visions steadily dim
Till all that left is the top of the rim
Somewhere it is written,in between the lines
Which seldom fit in with the designs
That all that is given is barely received
And all that is taken is rarely believed.
To those who see shadow without hint of light
And a chilled wind blows in the day and night
To those who seek joy in a bottomless glass
And,through brittled hands,all does pass
To those to which time has been unkind
To those who are free yet still confined
To those whose flames have dwindled to embers
And no one,even them,even remembers...
Somewhere it is written,no one knows where
Perhaps by a mitten on the frosted air
That all that is spoken goes forever unheard
And becomes a token to a mislaid word.