Evangeline, on the soulless night of February, I continue growing my broken wings. I remain sentimental, wasting my tears away. When I look at you, all I sense is the growing impatience that I will never be able to sit with you.

Even if I bloom with these wings and my graceful tears, I don't believe you will hear my silent pleas and whimsical, hopeful yearnings.

I am a tree with seeds of sadness buried deep in the earth. A rotting fruit of desires. I could never be as majestic as you, chère Evangeline. I am eloquently silent, with my lips tightly shut; I am a crumbling mountain, and madness slowly decapitates my light—but make it poetical.

Make my sadness profoundly graceful. Make my body arch like the slipper orchids. Make me a beautiful yet distant star, Evangeline.

My part of the world
Knows not who you are
A talent beyond words
Rhyming life in your lyrics
Effortless you sing your songs

Tom Waits
Why I never heard you before
Now I love your songs
And want to listen to some more
Forevermore

Talk not about me like this
Lady you never heard me before
And now you speak of my songs
As if you been a fan of, all life
Don’t  flatter me now

In this world there is misery enough
As I drive down the ghost town
Fearless eyes and lies, I see
Scary for people to cope
So, in my songs I sing of hope

“Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children alone”