When the Poet Sings

Upon the autumn streets when the city is away

On some lonesome quest for winter

The man who sings his poems unravels his display

And the neon spectrums turn to splinter heads

And the nights are cold, sometimes

But never for his pages

They don't sway against this wilder of the stage

And the ageless battle cries I unearthed from my eyes

No longer rise because the singin' poet is wise

He said, "That love of mine won't wither"

And that time would bring a treasure trove of things

And the shadows now, are just a sliver

But still, it stings

But it doesn't matter when the poet sings

Under the smoky chimes of roll-up cigarettes and rhymes

Beneath the palms of makeshift filters

He told me that my sorries were not really worth their weight sometimes

And it was best to let them welter

And though, I've sung and rung

Those bells of innocence, undone

With this side of the sun

But within his song, I sail

Amongst the sounds where sunlight fell

And where my experience begun

And when I'm weather-worn

And the virtues of my mind have torn away

And no such sounds won't stray

And if I keep my sorries, they'll not wither

And time will bring a treasure trove of things

And the shadows now are just a sliver

But still, it stings

But it doesn't matter when the poet sings

And when this drifting debutante

Madonna's come of age

And her days of youth are over her

She and I will both surmise

That the poet's song will brush aside dismay

Just as the infant's sorrow told her

And on the day that I am slayed

And by the colors of my mind betrayed

On the silence of the stage

The poet's song will set upon

And turn to flames my weary rungs

And set my phenomenons ablaze

He said my charming death would wither

That time would bring a treasure trove of things

And the shadows now are just a sliver

But still, it stings

But it doesn't matter when the poet sings