Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past

Our two hearts beat..
rhythmically, they sound so sweet.
Together,  we've set our love ablaze.
Trust me, this is not just a phase.
Our two hearts beat side by side,
forever as one, for the rest of our lives.

Evil buried deep inside
waiting to burst, but for now, to hide

Heart raging, blood racing
Brain surging, stomach aching

Something pushing at the nails
eyes turn cold as stone
Teeth gritting, sprouting fangs
Hatred pulsing through my veins

Heat of rage, trapped in this cage

Let it out, bleed it out!
Can't you see what it's about?

Blind, you're blind!
I'm losing my mind!

Let me run, let me go!
Maybe then you'll finally know

Maybe then I'll be free
from this hatred that's rotting me

Come and let us live my Dear,
Let us love and never fear,
What the sourest Fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dies today
Lives again as blithe tomorrow,
But if we dark sons of sorrow
Set; o then, how long a Night
Shuts the Eyes of our short light!
Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin to tell
A Thousand, and a Hundred, score
An Hundred, and a Thousand more,
Till another Thousand smother
That, and that wipe off another.
Thus at last when we have numb’red
Many a Thousand, many a Hundred;
We’ll confound the reckoning quite,
And lose ourselves in wild delight:
While our joys so multiply,
As shall mock the envious eye.

What kind of a man can
but a man that could, would not
and who should that man be?
but the man that lives in me

I engineer a situation to situate this simulation
in which I entertain my mind
and I find the stimulation that stimulates each situation is very kind
I don't mind if I am to be
a man that only I could be
and I can see
the man that I should be
is me.

Empathy and understanding
in the making of a man
is as crucial and demanding as the
man quite understanding
who can only understand
the type of man that he can see
and any man would want to be.

Anyway the man that is the man today
must learn that what he has to pay
is his fair dues
and losing sleep will not keep the man I am
from stumping up
I can
be the man I am
and if I am that man
then that man can be me.

Standing on the precipice
the people dance and sing
tip and toe along the razor's edge
not knowing what the day will bring

Finding comfort in the company we keep,
how brief the fleeting guarantees
from silver spoons like babes we feed
It'll take the doomsday bell to wake you from your sleep

And all we hold in our hearts as dear
we must secure by our own means
In no other man's hands rests your care
so when the hammer falls, prepare! prepare!

Your withered fingers feebly grasp
what's left of grandeur long since past
why do you cling to the status quo?
abandon your canon! forget what you know!

With humble heart and honest hands
carry the torch that holds the flame,
illuminates the darkened path
and points the way to start again

What countless numbers choose the road,
clamor for their place in line,
deaf to warning tones sustained
stretching across time,
it's the doomsday bell that's ringing
so when the hammer starts swinging where will you be?

It is in that moment,
the moment between an insane choice and a wise decision,
the moment of clarity,
or lack thereof,
that I wonder what long and twisted roads my actions will take me.
What gruesome forest, dark and tangled?
What flowered meadow, bright and hopeful?
What wretched depths?
What fantastic, climbing heights?
What and Where and oh my...Why?
And Who,
am I,
when the moment passes,
and the point of no return has been crossed?
Am I still me,
or am I a new mind,
having changed at the hands of my decision?

I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I used to do
on many sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,
and your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.

I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.

Your sweet head would bow,
like a child somehow,
down to me -
and your hair and your eyes were wild.

We would embrace on the floor-
You see my back´s still sore.
You knew how easily I bruised,
It´s a soreness I would never lose.

I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.

There's nothing quite like blackness
The greatest equalizer
We are all the same
We are all afraid of the noises in the dark
We are all helpless under it's spell.

And yet, there's something quite magical about it, isn't there?

Inspiration, a December sunset, quickly fades
forgotten and fearful of typewriting monkeys.
Much rather pass in an assembly of transistors.
Who, then, can blame us?

The moment of determination passes,
quicker than your fleeting headlights,
it's whisked away from the mumbling masses
struggling to justify their lost fight.