We will liable her with laughter,
naked beneath the stars
she should still be heard,
insisting on the art of listening.
She's in my head
her hope coursing through my veins.

We will cover her body with petals.
She talks in her dreams,
the insistence of light
will be her shroud.

You are the past perfect picture
I took before the war
The frillitary of the dead follows:
hiding your grief up your sleeves.
I am gaunt with worry
like  waking the dead with love,
kissing them before they were gone.

Chance has begone.
I've got it on my hand,
my jaded palmistry,
knows no better.
The faded story-line
tells the summation was seized

And you know in your heart,
your secrets are your own.
Wrapped up in your own armor,
yet lost in confusion,
mitigated by chance.
And when you've given your all
true adage advice will ring.

In a country full of leaves,
adroit promises are made, and
willows shy.
Yet there is no one to walk with.
Like a sole flower  in the night
there's no one to talk with.
Remember who is your best friend now?
deciding it has its merits,
deeper than you planned.
The pale bush is deeper than you gleamed

There is a wind in hell's chance
buried in voices in your head
before the war
the living and dead
A promise blind
as gentle as a two penny.
Johnnies smile, sweet enough to
make the young brides blush,
leading them through the tarnished avenue
Preacher man gave that boy a name
The promise is blind
see shamed guitar men run away

As gentle as a fawn,
when she dances in his dancehall,
remembering Vietnam.
those bedeviled eastern nights,
when she bequeaths her needs
the vices of loss are a contagion,
in contemplating oblivion,
when there's hire in his heart.