its time to say goodbye to paris to the dreams of you/a typewriter/ an early morning cigarette to you forgetting your coffee until its grown cold to the muse I used to be with a glass heart and amber dreams a golden room collects dust and unfulfilled daydreams I erase our paris from my memory
An old church at the end of the road Sunflowers spill over the altar For children grown old.
Alone in the pews I watch light suffused Through stained glass windows.
When I was young And it was my turn They gave us roses Told us they still have thorns Because life would hurt us When we found it.
Most of us did.
Including me.
Most of us left those four walls.
Most of us moved far away.
Most of us never returned.
Except for me.
The dusty hymnals smell like youth. The empty sanctuary looks like home. And I can still see myself by the piano The sound of my violin Was bigger than the world.
When it's all over
I step outside and feel the cold.
I was so young.
And now I'm afraid.
I'm getting so old.
I don't know anyone Filing out the door. Nobody knows me.
I walk to the B&B. I ask for a room. I used to play there so often They always let me stay for free.
The clerk says it's switched hands A dozen times or more. They say the chandelier Hasn't heard a song in years.
I unpack my suitcase upstairs And can't help but shed a few tears
What is a moth if not a butterfly who's traded in her grace and colour for pitter-patter sighs Inked nights To sift shy in shadows And forever thirst for light Soft Laughs in Dim lit taverns Almost winked out flames She's the tattered mistress of stars forgotten partaker Of a lesser praise
Dream is a bubble, easily burst from a light touch. At time, I forget I am a guest in my dream, A host and a guest; In control yet not, bizarre yet naught, unexpected yet forgot. Life too, is a dream, a very long dream indeed.
