You had a golden hour approaching
I wrote it down into my never ending
Then I sang a song that held each note too long
And dusted off each missing string.
Well and gone was each memory
Tucked into a case, sent off to sea
So my carved music making machine
Led me down the worst wrong street.
Oh you, you, you dug more sand to cover my toes
Coldness that I couldn’t attribute
Soaking bone my today castle
Over sunsets of towards a never end.
My eyes have become the blurry vision
Of what they once used to see,
Fading sunlight in a white-washed
The deck has become stained
With forgotten footsteps,
Leaving only smears
As marks on my mind.
And I delicately touch rough bark
Encircling our plum tree,
Tracing lines from hither to tither
Like the vision I once used to see.
A sentence was all I wrote
On a dusty pad of paper
Laying on the old workbench
Inside my late grandfather’s shop.
I knew he was still around there,
He spoke to me in hanging machine parts
Scattered about full walls.
Then I whispered goodnight
And turned down the lights
Making sure the heavy door
Was shut the way he’d shown me how.
I am the elegant sign you’ve been off the deep end for.
Hanging on a railing, dipping into clear lakes,
Walking with the scent of sun-kissed-yellow tulips.
Trouble is a memory; blind leading, a road and I have faith.
Can you get a wild feeling on bad betting machine?
Sing songs with a quite tongue and I will listen for.
And it is here and I am evermore.
A spell of clear reflections of which I did implore.
And I stand here, just as morning, dripping for you.
With Israel and his son Concordia,
The Conquistadors contemplated anarchy;
“No!” Yelled the city streets
Against windows of innocent glassy puddles.
And thus the lost voice: Arbritage.
So from inside the ancient gold plated doors
Swashbucklers leaned on their pole called history,
Singing songs that rolled off tongues
Like français of an unbroken heart.
The two shook their secret handshake,
Clasped each a moon of waxing gibbous
Deep within their full hearts of innocent desire,
Coughing on fumes leftover from the army
Who had rolled through these streets
To a machine named destruction.
So who was left crying?
Not the lost brothers, silently creeping along
Dead back streets, poorly lit.
No, not the dead brothers waving rebel flags.
Not the flowers, forever resilient
To tumult and it’s darkness.
No, it was the stone covered city
And it’s sister: splinters.