The ashes of love linger on my forhead
of burned up discarded thoughts
like old letters in a fire pit
incinerating to dust
and I watch the fragile remains
drift off onto the block
with hungry little hearts
picking them up
I didnt smile at the hands
who dreamed of pretty doves
I smiled at the children running a muck
Someday they'll know how I have grown
Someday they will drownd their dreams in that little wishing well
and I will apologise and tell them of Santa Claus
How beliefs can be magical
but beliefs they just are
I remember howling with that pack of dogs
but now it's just me the pack ran off
When they ask me, whats the meaning then?
I'll brush them off
like the ashes on my forhead
like the running wild dogs
The truth is it varies for everyone
You have to find it within yourself