(T. Beechey)

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.

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