The mirror weeps
The same old tears
That fell upon me
All of those years

My arms they've held
The lives now lost
I've lived their life
But at what cost

I'm not the poet
That I once was
I'm not the man
Of days now past

If loneliness is nothing more
Than a lonely robin hiding
From the cold inside a pine tree
In the middle of a frozen northeastern
Central park,
Then I'm the bark wood collected beneath
It's claws.