Another five years on the park bench
a part of the very scenary you grew up in
still present a long that old street
the skin on your arm matching the earth
the day as light as a sheet
wavering and brushing over your head
as you go another eight hours sitting on the roadside
walking stick grandchildren somewhere
soft short moss covers the shadowed wall
covering its view of the morning smile
wrapping its way onto your face old man
life must miss you
the day as light as a sheet
absorbing that strong destructive light
drying your soul on those old streets
distributing you into the ether
I a thousand strokes of wrong
Give eternal thanks
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário