There no getting over this I've nothing to say,
not a thing I can do to keep sadness at bay.
I find I can't laugh but it's easy to cry,
I cry for myself on that I can't lie.
There's a pain in my heart I just want to scream,
the only thing left for me is to sleep and to dream.
So I just dream of a world I once knew,
clocks don't turn back so I dream dreams of you.....
Tulips stand in silent watch over flora entombed in winter, waiting for springs gaudy hues, pinks, purple, yellows, and blues. Winter Jasmine blooms soon go but tulip petals defy the frost but all too soon they're lost.
This tulip is made to last come summer heat or winter's blast, when leaves do fall in wintry weather and the summer birds have fled. This tulip will stay for winter just because it's made from lead.........
From the top of the bus I could see the dancing and music that night.
This is how I remember it though I know this picture's not right.
In my first year as a teenager I was wanting but not knowing of what?
Sitting on the bus in traffic through a window this image I got.
In the youth club they were dancing and it spilled out the street.
They whirled and twirled as he held her, Oh to have been him on that night.
So in my mind's eye I have changed it from that street to a Parisian night.
With a jazz band playing hot numbers with the type of girls that I liked.....
As the man makes a stool for the cellar-man,
As the tide erodes a cliff,
As footsteps are lost on a sandy beach,
With dewdrops on gossamer webs.
As sand runs through an hourglass,
And youth takes the bitter with the sweet,
With a promise of love and stolen days,
But it's all a trick not a treat.
Time is killing them slowly,
The days have not lingered on,
Old age takes the bitter with the sour,
No grains are left, the hour gone,
The dews dried up, the webs are dashed,
The wind reveals fossil prints,
The cliff has gone and left not a hint,
The stools in the bar, but the cellar-man ain't........
I remember the early morning mist in the city riding a bike over the streets of cobbles.
The sun burns away the haze, no cars, just people walking quietly to fulfil their monotonous days.
That was long ago, now things have altered, the cobbles have gone, cars are here, and people
hurry on.
The morning mist is soft and quiet like a painting that Hopper might do.
It takes me back to memories of autumn days and idle thoughts of you.
Music runs through my head like the soundtrack to my life, I retrace the lost footsteps of my
youth, listening for the sound of your voice.
The passed is like a long-dead stranger whispering in my ear, telling me thing I already know,
things I don't need to hear.................
