Op. 22, no. 2
No more be grieved at that which you have done,
Nor any longer keep your lonesome mirth.
Let us sit outside, beneath the noonday sun,
And speak of what has happened on this earth.
Let we of single mind feel free to speak
The dreams, the thoughts, emotions of the heart,
The highs and lows (both blessings) of the week
That write and paint our lives as works of art.
And as facades we've placed begin to fade,
The lives we share grow clearer to our sights.
We sacrifice the mess our own pride made
And in our need, let brothers in our plights.
All men make faults, and even I in this:
To love you all the more the mark I miss.