It's like the city's got it's own song but he can't play along. That it feels so right when nothing else does.īut all the while he's playing there's a hummingĬoming up and through the window from outside.Īnd even he has to admit a certain melody in it, Paints every shift in murals on the wall. Now nothing makes sense except the bench and that piano,Ī feeling nearing order when I'm pressing down the chords."īut what'll it take to make my life sound like that.Īnd brings a fever, a dream of sweat and ecstasy.Ī kiss on every hammer hit that follows as the keys fall down andīring an order first, then chaos, then a calm, that Get worn out, torn up, and late with the rent. Of the child that he once was and the sense of hope they framed. ![]() ![]() Sits still in the apartment while sifting through some pictures Like a shadow on a shadow, a phantom in a film strip,įaint glimmer of the past trapped in mother's old slides,
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