Rosebud

Come, quiet this shivering eye
Unprepared for winter,
Hear the late rosebud's soft cry
As it won't bloom, but splinter.

Forgive the truth that came out wrong
In a moment of weakness,
Remember to wrap in a song
The last word of love's witness.

It's late and cold, sheer abyss,
The nightfall's now right here,
Going to sleep without a kiss
Steals each new day a tear.

Thank You for the Music

A symphony dies to be sung
There's music welling up in wonder--
No job for chords or fingers wrung
Fit just to play the tunes of blunder.

Excitement is killed by remorse,
Outbidding passion's claim on love
But still, disrupting this divorce,
The music ripples from above.

It is a music never sung,
Of far-off words remaining mute,
Resounding truer now, when hung,
Than in the days they've taken root.