The Story

There’s a story I have to tell.

In galleries we stand alone

to watch the angels holding hands.

We finance more machine gun nests,

proclaim ourselves the self-made man.

With golden hearts in burning fields 

we talk about the gorgeous flame.

When alleycats play cards with mice,

we all pretend we’d do the same.

In blinding light toward the sun,

we search for Heaven one by one

as though our life’s a race to win

and fellowship’s a mortal sin

as every leaf shakes loose its tree

and every lonely honeybee

looks happier than you or me

but none of that is true. You see,

there’s a story I have to tell.

Your toaster says you are alone.

Your money says you are alone.

Your trainers say you are alone

but there’s a story I have to tell:

that every heart you’ve ever known

is just like yours. You’re not alone

and every hearth and every home

is somewhere you can call your own.

So let’s hold hands and try once more

to find the rose above the door.

As time unravels, we’ll ignore

the smiles of those who won’t explore

or come together; who cannot see

that I am you and you are me.