I trust that a man can create the moon with his voice
And reap the melancholy they create.
The woman who leads the stars into the sky
Can charm the misshapen hands of fate.
But the simple words that rest between you and me
Are born into patterns of crimson and gold;
Though the smiles and laughs and the final goodbyes
Rest on our skin already forgotten and cold.
We rely on people we trust to have seen our act
To shape the formless tide of mood;
All collected in a narrative we create together
In the heart of the perfect tune.
Well, my dreams remain stately seen
in a passing eye or my written melody.
And somewhere are the places that I know,
although I see them with a golden glow.
I hope that my dreams will always stay
never to dim with the passing days.
And I know one thing that still stands true;
dreams never die, they simply change.
You don’t notice the world when you’re talking.
When you remember the scene, you remember everything:
The temperature of the wind, the sounds of laughter,
The pebbles parting beneath your feet.
And parts in-between you paint into view,
Like the camera angles that would have captured you best,
The lingering shot on the moment they looked at you,
The song that should have been playing, just audible enough.
But at the time you lose yourself to the small things that you say;
The things that make you happy just being there.
Big delta heart aged one hundred and three;
Crossed a mighty river,
Showered by the tears from the high hanging trees,
And that steamboat never slowed down.
His crooked cemetery smile grounded the crows
That followed like the band;
And they sang in the sermon weary night
Till it got out of hand,
Still that steamboat went rolling on and on.
Been a little hard lately.
Still I smile when I wake in the morning
And see the sun forming a golden frame
From behind my curtains.
I know I will laugh again.
Gold sun on the lake,
The ripples lap from the painters brush
And rise to join the evening air.
The sky above is bruised from fresh rain.
Since then, the birds have begun to sing.
I have not yet lived enough to tell the truth,
Though I have seen many moons
And outlived stars. I have seen love
Both born and destroyed –
I never said a word.
I live second hand stories
Waiting for mine to begin.
Grey heart so stormy and shaded
Beaten by rest and indecision –
Still waiting to be painted,
And so long have I waited
For the grey to turn to crimson.
The simple things I long for
Like blue skies over cable cars
Only happen in the movies
Littered with forgotten stars.
Warm fires on winter days
Romances to light the summer sun
Seem so close to touch
Yet remain hidden when the day is done.
The good life in the streets
People smiling, birds in the trees
Are locked outside my door
Maybe waiting there for me.
But the simple things I long for
Come from technicolour stories;
The right lines to the saddest songs
And people chasing down memories.
The blessed final drink late at night
As the rain turns gold in the glow of the spotlight
And the gamblers amble from their games.
Your song had finally been sung
Remembering the last time you were stung
By the one who can chill you with her name.
The sympathetic ear that once stood so near
Is at the other end of the bar
And your inner thoughts turn to wondering
If anyone cares where you are,
But the money you’ve spent and the letters you’ve sent
And the final whispering goodbye –
Leaves you with no feeling left in your heart
And a pair of tired eyes.
The light footsteps on the polished floor
Are making their way towards the open door
Into the cold silence of the night,
And you listen for her even though you know
She had left so long ago
And you didn’t even put up a fight.