Song of the Sparrow

There  are a few ironies in life,
but no number of explanations would suffice,
to the impulsion of this heart of mine,
for it's an irony on its own, a witch's shrine.

My heart is a great witness to white crimes,
the ones you hope will get lost in the chimes of time,
and though the waning moon casts no shadow,
you speak gently of his days, the song of a sparrow

He sings of your faltering straight face,
of the reluctant hopes you encase,
of your tearful eye as you walk away,
from my smiling mirage, blocking your way. 

Says you've resorted to restrains,
with fading façades at that,
to lock me out in the pouring rain,
from your won tears of guilt in vain.

While he sings all this, so does he scream as well
Of the future memories of a living hell,
I'd abide to the dramatic show,
Where you alone know which strings set me free.

See, my hearts a simpleton,
It never knows what must be done.
Yet it sings the song of the sparrow,
The one you taught, to induce sweet sorrow.