Unknown
The lonely tide has drifted inward to the sleeping heart twisted unknown
the old man grows young only for a moment then dies as he sings with trees
my flask has been filled with liquids you wouldn’t know how to spell
the bridges that lie across the desert of hope will be torn down again I say
The lonely soul needs your tears too because he has run out of them for now
the quantity of life lies only in the story of the quality of the music played
putting down the morals of the life never lived has setbacks you don’t want
the text and everything else just confuses the blessed baby’s mind anyway
cursed and beckoning the whistle of time end will be loudly burning in the morning
you know the old favorite hangout of Old Man Willard down on Gretchen’s lane
you remember Gretchen Bellows the one with the tatoo of the end of her stay here
leaving may not seem to far or fat but let me suggest to you it whistling with her
In finishing my tale to tell I am waiting for my vain dreams that meant nothing anyway
the music played on and I thought I had written the only song in heaven to cry my tears
but the fiddler spoke loudly to my organs that were clueless to what was happening to them
but I will tell you this: the heart responded with such elegant murmuring that I was floored.
-Jason L. Scarabin