Maybe there was a poem waiting in the empty barstool
but I missed the opportunity to hear it whisper itself in my ear
because I was too busy making myself cower in the corner
wishing I hadn’t skipped out the day life
was suppose to teach me how to start a conversation
and I ended up with a double dose of awkwardly shy
so the back table and the corner is my usual nesting hole
and silence is my most constant companion
and it really is quite comfortable
and there isn’t anything to complain about
I don’t get lonely very often
unless I’m stuck in a crowd of small talk
I’ve grown rather found of being alone
and the endless hours of solitude it provides
and I have had a rather good life
and it’s still has some road left to it
and friends and love
have been an intricate part of the journey so far
with more of both than maybe I deserved
but still every now and then
there is a new pair of eyes
and a kind voice and a smile behind a counter
that makes me wonder if I couldn’t do something more
than write fictional love poems to imaginary girls
and women who don’t exist
and the barstool is still empty
and I can hear a kind voice
and picture the eyes that spin wildly above a gentle smile
but then again maybe it’s all just an illusion
and the whole scene is made up
by my companion of silence
in the hours of solitude I seem to be so fond of

If I could hold him one more year
one more year
and have him not age a single day
hold him at this age
so free from care
yet so caring
just one more year
and have him never age

Forever young
Forever gentle
Forever kind

Let youth not leave his hands
Let time not weigh down his days
Let nothing lead his heart astray

Just one more year
and have him never age
so free from fear
so free to dream
so brave in youth
just hold him to this age

Forever young
Forever gentle
Forever kind

Just one more
one more
forever more
to hold him to this day

My self worth sleeps
with my self loathing
and the devil is watching
the whole thing go down
and whats one more scar
on a dented heart
and it hurts to breath
but it feels good to bleed
so I keep something sharp
underneath tear soaked pillows
and there is a dream somewhere
saying all this pain is worth it
and there is a reason somewhere
saying to keep my head up
and there is someone
who wants to listen
and there is someone
who wants to say something
and its all been said before
but maybe we can say it
one more time and maybe theres something more to living
than watching the devil
watch my self worth
sleep with my self loathing

She smelled of earthly verse
and soft scented lust of poetry
and her name burned
in the forest of the tiger
where pleasure was forged
from sins desire
and sewn into petals
made of flesh in shape of flower
and what god or man would dare
to venture and give prayer
to offer their heart to sacrifice
for the blessing
of the kingdom and universe
she keeps hidden
beneath her *******
where love is found
in the scent of her earthly verse
and lust for poetry

Behind the curtain
of closed doors
and words dressed
in gowns of metaphors
what of love is found
in flesh of lust
and what of lust is found
in raging blod of love

Under sheets of starlight
and blankets woven
from fresh flowers
bloomed from sin  
and why should
we wear this skin
if not to indulge in things
made from fire

In beds of verse and silk
and words of flame
burning your image in the night
I find your name painted
in the sound
and beating of my heart

In a dreamers grave
my bones will dry and fade
where my love died
buried under metaphors
for I could not find my way
behind the curtain
of closed doors

I stare out to the blanket of stars
painted across the night
and I feel the calling of home
somewhere out in the distance
beyond the reach
and touch of my fingertips
but so deeply rooted
into the beat and rhythm
of my heart
and to what distant glimmering light
have i been torn
from what star was my blood born
and how long before I return

and I have had my homes here on earth
in the faces and names
that I have found love
on the beds and the couches
I have slept and crashed
as a king
and a peasant
and lover and friend
I have lived in houses
made of wood
and hearts made of blood and soul

and yet it is always the stars
that leave me longing
for the home that is away
and inside my bones

The three kind mice
are the oldest of the old
the wisest of the wise
the kindest of the kind

The first of all life
the first of all mice
the first of Hempstock blood

They see without seeing
they know without knowing
they give without expecting

They gave the tick and the tock
to the hands of the clock
and the sand to the wind
and the glass to the hour
and time its name and its nature

They gave the moon
the blanket of night
and the lullaby of stars
and the ocean the warm breath
and goodnight kiss of the sun
and dream its name and its season

They gave the tree
the root and the trunk
and the trunk the branch
and the  branch the leaf
and life its name and its being

They gave the heart
a rhythm and a beat
and a home beneath
flesh skin and bone
inside of all that would be
and love its name and its reason