The breeze whispers in the silence
I stir and weakly waft it away
It beckons to me in its insistence
I tell it now is not the day.
Like all who have preceded me,
I could too follow that lost way,
I’d rather draw its strength to me
And let me say what I must say.
Perhaps my heart will be finally true
I trust to find the words if I may
But I am certain what I must do
For today will always be the day.
To write the unread poem
To sing the unsung song
To tell the untold story
To live the unlived life.
And perhaps comfort the lost
Or perhaps salve a broken wound
Perhaps shine a light of love
Hopefully in a life of another.
Andrew James Whalan 