One , two , three . . .
     One , two , three . . .
One , two , three . . .

     (Waltzing away)

I'm holding on ,

     tonic and gin ,

my silly grin .


I hear the strings
    
      of the violin ,

in the echoes

     of my sin , in the din ,

the glory of my screams .


I long to fly ,

       nighthawks ,

diving ,  

       in the midnight's

sky of lights .


The arcade of words ,

       pages shelved .

The parties made ,

       the glasses

emptied . . .

       in despair .


Clear as midnight ,

       short as a stroke ,

the ghosts

       of the faces ,
       
hiding within ,

        what about them ?

What about midnight ?