What they don't teach in language classes

A rose blooms over its thorn
And a dewdrop can hold the skies
I’ve read all that and I could have sworn
They’re inlaid into my eyes
Then why is hope suddenly forlorn
And my tissues feel like lies?

The migrants sing their normal tune

And I know it, every note.
The yearnings and the misfortune -
They’re layered inside  my throat
But still, a switch in an afternoon
Refuses to remix distraught.

The spiritual and the con

And I have seen them both
I’ve been the flame that burns on
And I’ve been the moth
But still, a sudden flare of dawn
Whispers something like an oath.

The thorns stay on after the rose

The poets never gave that a space.
The exiles sing, but some of those
Never find a home to embrace.
And they never said of hopes or woes
Which one’s easier to face.