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Description
I saw you in my mind
Walking through the streets of town as the snow was falling
The wind hitting your face like dry ice
As you kicked through the slush lying on the side of the curb

You saw the homeless man an gave him your money
And made time to talk to the woman sitting all by herself on the icy bench
You learned that her husband had died
And you cried your own tears: calling it empathy for lack of a better word

You climbed the steps of the public library with purposeless indignation
To find warmth within the old womb from which you came
Only to find that the words had changed their meaning since the last time you were there
You read beyond the pages and saw only the tears of Oscar Wilde and Robert Frost

“Is there warmth in the hearts of our contemporaries?”
“Am I the only one who has ever felt exactly as I do now?”
and “When an old thought dies, how much of me dies with it?”
Questions asked mostly by the philosopher, poet, and hopeless romantic

If you are still there, isolated from reality, and burdened by the cruelty of the freezing cold
Think of me and know that I would want you to come home
Warm your hands by the fire
And sleep on the thought that there is an eye to every storm.

Description
I saw you in my mind
Walking through the streets of town as the snow was falling
The wind hitting your face like dry ice
As you kicked through the slush lying on the side of the curb

You saw the homeless man an gave him your money
And made time to talk to the woman sitting all by herself on the icy bench
You learned that her husband had died
And you cried your own tears: calling it empathy for lack of a better word

You climbed the steps of the public library with purposeless indignation
To find warmth within the old womb from which you came
Only to find that the words had changed their meaning since the last time you were there
You read beyond the pages and saw only the tears of Oscar Wilde and Robert Frost

“Is there warmth in the hearts of our contemporaries?”
“Am I the only one who has ever felt exactly as I do now?”
and “When an old thought dies, how much of me dies with it?”
Questions asked mostly by the philosopher, poet, and hopeless romantic

If you are still there, isolated from reality, and burdened by the cruelty of the freezing cold
Think of me and know that I would want you to come home
Warm your hands by the fire
And sleep on the thought that there is an eye to every storm.