yet for her my mind true flows
and it seems for only her the great winds blow
and yet in the mind off all, and the flowing passage to hell I see
it seems my path true forms to the winds of change
and yet as my innards are ripped and formed to the whims of my mind, the blood softly flows
from the cuts and the scars from a time long ago, never truly healed, and yet never truly in existence
the wounds that never were can never be, as long as I throw myself to the pits of the whims of others
for living through others, I slowly bleed myself, and the tears that are now falling are for only me
for I am killing myself, to fit the whims of others,
for I am killing myself, to fall were I so truly wish to stand
never was it possible to buy the happiness I wanted
never was it possible to seek it through your eyes
so slowly shall I travel, from the here to there
and then one day when I reach it, I truly wish you shall be there
but I don’t blame you if you leave me, for soon I shall be naught,
the foolish happy minstrel, who plays the songs for kings
for the songs he sings he hates, and his heart is not truly there
for he does not love the words he sings, but they are songs non the less
so when he stands up for himself, and puts his heart to it, he should not fear the results he gets, for if he is thrown away
the strings that held him there were not true, a loved one he is not
for in there eyes he was great, as something he was not
he was a tangent of there love
he fit conveniently when he was what they wanted
but his change threw them askew
and then the next grand morning he was singing amongst the dew
he strolls amongst the meadows, and down the sleeping streets, but slowly were there was no life he brings a lively beat
the man who often squabbled, with the old hag down the street, kindly smiles and waves to her then jumps to lift her off her tired old feet
this minstrel showing his true love and song, has changed those peoples days, and now if they refuse to smile, he continues to play
he cares not if they hate him, for there hate gains nothing at all
and yet when they turn and smile to him, even though the gain be small, it lifts his soul so softly,
and when he finally dies, with his soul goes those smiles, for they knew not who he was, but they knew the song he sang was full of love and full of glee
so I only wish I could somehow make, that mistral out of me.

Richard DeLong
4-18-98