adventures in dysthymia

Tuesday, August 31, 2004


Tomorrow is a song I wrote for you.
To whom should I now sing? The tune is lost;
it echoes in my deserts, empty places
between desire and the waning moon.

Bring me my guitar, a glass of wine,
and yesterday will find its melody.
I'll fill this night with stars a while, forgetting
I have no song, no music for tomorrow.

Stephen Brooke ©2004

Two pieces in a row in iambic pentameter. It seems suitable to 'sad' poetry of this sort; a solid structure lends impact to what otherwise might come off as just more whiny words -- something we all read far too much of on line!

No comments: