I hear the voices from fairytale days,
of bruised knees and bloody noses in the night,
of dogs and games and Disney
to pouts and pen and ink on walls—
and happy endings to bursting and weary days.
I hear the voices of sweet Camelot hours,
of swings and things dirty and germy,
of teeth brushed and songs sung
to whines and colds and sorrys—
weary endings to full and happy days.
Now worlds distant in faith and place,
there’s weakness in these spiraling days,
and all I can do is cry and pray
when I hear them in the night—
I still hear the voices.