This feeling comes a-calling, again in the dead of night. This feeling comes a-calling, again in the hollows of the heart. The sadness sawed free of the sad old song, a nest made of notes and ice. The weary blur of tears let loose like hounds, chasing sorrow down the flesh, hunting nothing but respite. The sorry list of failings that howl through the empty and the cold. The sordid story told out of school, the moment when misery's only company is you.
There is the dark room, there is the hour. The labored faith of a fitful rain. The air that claims each breath as steam. The door that crackles with the threat of opening. The sounds that assail you when there is no-one else there. How strange the sense that sense is leaving. How full the sound seems when the hollow is all you know.
We wear our sadness by the hour. We carry our sorrow in decades gone to seed. The echoes within echoes, ripples entangled with the skin of the water. We sing our songs and dance out circles. We all hold hands and guard our hearts. The small joys that hold us earthbound while we circle. Spin around and shed our frailty. Spin around and answer fast. The night comes calling with its burning questions. The night comes calling, this ache all you ever know.