My fears do I confess? Your tears do I let drown. Drops within a sea. Times I let you down.
Who is she and where? His Clementine whispering in his ear. Anytime there's no one near. Who picks flowers for herself, lighting candles for the night. He turns to see her pretty face. Either she is quick to react or, in reality, has no place.
Either I stood in your shadow or waited in your shade. A fly on the wall buzzing about things to be made. Now I see clearly with a thousand little eyes. Please leave these words, how little you keep inside.
"For once it was nice: shedding myself of the most boring aspects of my life. Which were, realistically, the most exciting parts in the lives of others... Before, I placed all my perception of beauty into wonder, into imagining great features in great lands, great feats by great hands. Now I know, it is not those who wander that are lost, but those who wonder endlessly of where they could go."
For Eva, dear, draw your forever near. Your black crescent moon, coals cold by noon. In ink on your skin, birds chirp on your shoulder. Wake you at dawn. Lie to your ears.
I grow dizzy with all the flames I've burned, with all the times this new leaf has turned. Waste my dreams as morning burns into view, a painful reminder I wake without you. Look over the ocean at all the fish swimming free; a lonely sailor caught by the sea.
To the editor, I read the signs: many long books, reflections high and low. For a great fear, a life without, alone. Madam, I confess, of my journey far and less; of stars and streams alike. Nothing helped me see. Not the sun behind her, burning in her amber eyes or words within set free. I implore you, find the will. Maybe not a happy ending, but an ending even still.
Around and around the red blue mind. Thoughts creep and whisper in thin grey lines. Music to ears as silence to sleeping. Deposit in years, a warm heart beating. Ask me now, where I have been. I answer by staring in low dull hymn.
This is my calling. I hear it. My life will be spent running to, not from. The cold wind whispers; a compass through my soul. Soothing and chilling to the deepest rivers of my heart - the old. While the mountain stands. Sentries below. Ready, ringing to the core. I do not fear it.
Passed around the campfire, like cold whiskey rye, has long been a story of a river boat on high. A siren on a Saturday in line with a row of smoke. Chugging through the Mississippi where fools rock the boat. Crying, "don't you believe me!" "Well, what's it take?" A half soul and three pence for a jug and icing on the cake. The sirens wailing, said, "come have some fun." Those sailors jumped right in; danced to the sinking sun. Hootin' and hollerin' to the wild wicked moon. As crazed as dog bane, but you'll sure pay soon. Up came the toll - hat passed around. The sailors had nothing, not a soul to be found. That's what yah' get, boys, when you give the devil due, but he's a fair poker; now you'll be too. Folks don't believe me when I tell my wary tale. Those damned rosewater's for a night of glutton and ale. Mark my words clearly, when you see a ship of white turn stern and flee or work the Devil's shift all night.