Why do you still stir such things in me
like little birds that soar above the world
right into the sun that shines so bright
I have to shut my eyes against it
Who are you that they should whisper of you
these voices that won't die like the rest
but instead sing louder, ever more insistent
and paint your name into my dreams
What is it about you that lingers so
here in the depths of my ravaged heart
amidst the charred remains of who I was
a single ember, a pale glow, frail warmth
Why is it your voice alone
that calls the wind to stir these ashes
waking faith and hope and sunlight
from shallow graves where they sleep
In your eyes I still can find myself
who I was and was meant to be
and I still believe that I can be her
and doubt impossibility.