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 splinters
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 unearth from my
eyes no longer writhe because the singing poet is wise
They said that love of mine won't wither
That 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
Under the smoky chimes of roll up cigarettes and rhymes
Beneath the palm of makeshift filters
He told me that my sorries were not
really worth their weight sometimes
And it was best to let them wither
And though I've sung and rung those bells of innocence undone
With the side of the sun
But within his song I sail and 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
She and I will both surmise that the
poet's song will brush aside this man
Just as the infant's sorrows 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 apart and turn to flames my weary rungs
And set my phenomenons ablaze
He said my charming death would 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
