Draw the curtains, blow out the candles,
We are shy things, harmless shy things,
Who live in quiet, quiet places,
Like the sleeping pages of a dog eared book,
Or floating in an old lover’s new perfume.
But don’t go now, listen first,
Don’t you want to know where you’ll go?
Listen, listen, listen close.
The sound of drizzle on Monday mornings,
Is the soul of a bearded man who died alone,
Waiting in a hospitable bed near the window.
And the careful drops falling from your leaky faucet,
Are elfin souls of children born too soon.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.
Every wrinkle on the hands of an arthritic woman,
Is the soul of a struggling artist
Who left without a penny to his name.
And when the sunlight filters through the leaves,
On an especially windy afternoon,
You can hear the snores of a resting Kamakazi,
Who died during some World War many decades ago.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.
In the shuffle of sheets strewn across an abandoned desk,
You might find strange numbers and words,
Scribbled down by an absent-minded professor,
Who shot himself during an experiment.
In the tiny sting of an unexpected paper cut,
You might find the letters of every forgotten word,
Like the souls of the great Greek heroes
Who lost their way to Elysium.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.
Near the restless moon on a drowsy summer night,
Before you go to bed with the blankets by your side,
You’ll hear the ‘click, click, click’ of a busy keyboard,
And in the ‘click, click, click’ you’ll find,
The coffee-drenched soul of a writer you didn’t know.
So listen, listen, listen close.
