Wind Instruments

Your old life is forgotten as your new life blends
Easily with the future. Around the next bend
There is welcome or theft, it all depends
On who is waiting, how the day must end.

The desert is not death for some who come across
And carry hope even though they mount in loss,
Who try to find their dreams by leaving them
Where two roads cross, and the sky is a paradox.

A small home, a box, some human contact, a body to touch -
From thin fabrics we construct a life, our mind is such
It burnishes everything it touches with a dream
And only when bullying fate is vicious do we scream

And give in for a moment to a thought of failing,
Of getting too close to the railing or the edge.
The matchbox world swells beneath the vertiginous ledge -
From a fear of falling we recoil
And try to hold our backs against the wall,

But the signs we cling so tight to are vapour;
We think they can support us but they drift
Like clouds across the skyline then they lift
Leaving just an empty sky
On which our names were never written.