holding to your heart as it is dear,
in a light shining as courage itself,
under the nightly hour of twelve.
No pearls are hiding under that cloak,
there are no apples under elderly oak,
if words of hope are giving you dread,
heart can shiver, but the soul is dead.
A beautiful ballad of chance and choice,
a harmony of a swan song and poise,
merely an illusive ending for a heart,
will give your soul an ahead of a start.
An internal winter starts a bonfire,
that fuels the heart and it's desire,
and from that, will births the strength,
which you can travel to any length.
When climbing the hill nears it's end,
it's up to you, if you will crack and bend,
instead of worrying if your luck will shift,
be to yourself the most biggest gift.
A dark night always creates the sun,
after the moon ends it's nightly run,
from a cold wind you can have a blister,
or you can take it as a hopeful whisper.
Life is a dance of a soul and it's heart,
where one would end, the other starts,
a snow is a water inspired by sand,
when taking a bow, prepare your stance.