upon the autumn streets when the city is away
on some lonesome quest for winter
the man who sings his poems unravels his display
and the neon spectrums turn to splinters
and the nights are cold sometimes
but never for his pages
they don't sway against this wilderof the stage
and the ageless battle cries I unearthed from my eyes
no longer writhe because the singing poet is wise
they said that love of mine won't wither
that time will bring a treasure trove of things
and the shadows now are just a sliver
but still it stings
but it doesn't matter
when the poet sings
under the smoky chimes of roll up cigarettes and rhymes
beneath the ponds of makeshift filters
he told me that my sorries were
really not worth their weight sometimes
and it was best to let them wither
and though I've sung and rung
those bells of innocence undone
with the side of the sun
but within his song I sail
amongst the sounds where sunlight fell
when my experience begun
and when I'm weather-worn
the virtues of my mind have torn away
and no such sounds won't stray
and if I keep my sorries they'll not wither
and time will bring a treasure trove of things
and the shadows now are just a sliver
but still it stings
but it doesn't matter
when the poet sings
and when this drifting debutante
Madonna's come of age
and her days of youth are over
she and I will both surmise
that the poet's song will brush aside this man
just as the infant's sorrows hold her
and on the day that I am slayed
and by the colors of my mind betrayed
on the silence of the stage
the poet's song will set apart
and turn to flames my weary rungs
and set my phenomenons ablaze
he said my charming death would wither
and time would bring a treasure trove of things
and the shadows now are just a sliver
but still it stings
but it doesn't matter
when the poet sings (x)
