The Call

Loathsome grinds of loud machinery pervade
T​​​​​he evening air, the sounds of mirth, a serenade
Songs of an owl, a siren loon
Joys to sorrows, a prison moon
In chains are those dreams that were caught
Dripped faux tears and crimes were wrought 
Upon the hearts 
That bled of sins
Trial and sentence
Denial, repentance 
Then the cries for mercy permeate
Th​​​​​​e mesosphere of love and hate
The moon hears and listens
​​​​​​Draws nearer to my sorrow 
Tells me of tomorrow 
Promises sun and hints 
That love will return, reverberate, strong with echoing songs we made 
Once again will I serenade
To you I will sing
Hear my distant call for now, oh love
As I cry to the moon to bring
O​​​​​​ur dreams
The tears are real, no crimes to conceal 
Our hearts will heal
The moon still imprisons
​​​But lets us free