To the Lonely, and the Kind [A Sonnet]

At night, the drum might sound beneath your bed;
The tell-tale hearts of all your lovers past.
Those fallen stars, each one badly miscast,
are buried there, though none are truly dead.
At dawn, you hear the crying of a bell,
each toll the ringing out of some lost hope.
The clapper swings with no-one at the rope;
so many years and so few tales to tell.
By day, you are the still, small voice of calm
that others need to make sense of their days.
Your kindness helps us all in many ways.
Your wisdom true, your honesty a balm.
Then comes the night; the heavens swiftly turn.
Your kick-drum heart will dream of love, and burn.