Campfire Stories

Tell me again of that lonely soul whose best friends were its own room's walls,
Then tell me of that man whose selfishness made of him a hoarder of himself.

Tell me, then, of that lady whose brow was so dark and cold stars from afar nested on it.
Tell me o tell me of those children whose joy was so strong their agony was laughter.

Tell me again, then, of that troubled kid whose stranged ways lead her to oblivion!
Tell me o tell me of that lad whose shadow was so nigh he could feel touched and gasping.

O tell me, tell me again of those people whose mirth was so contagious their pox was fun.
Tell me, tell me tell me of that creature whose form was so free it could not be seen.

Tell me, then, of those people whose poison was so keen their voice was hissing,
And tell me of those two whose hands were so safe their embrace was shackles.

Tell me, my dear, of those men and women so far and brave their history became true.
Tell me, o tell me my dear, of songs long heard and lost whose echo clings to beauty.

Then tell me, my dear, of those troubles whose troubles were troublesome peace,
And tell me of that long-felt peace whose peace was a trouble of peaceful trouble.

And then, my dear, tell me of something new whose face I've known for sure.
And then, my dear, sing me an old rhyme whose sound is all unknown to me.

Then perhaps finally you'll use some listening.
Then perhaps finally we'll know some truth.

Tell me again of reason.
Tell me again of it all.