bends to the form of another's glance
that lingers long where the juke-box plays,
softening the contours of circumstance.
A promise sleeps in a distant room,
bends to the form of another's glance,
dwells on the thought of escaping the tomb
but hope and the wardrobe are all but bare.
A promise sleeps in a distant room
dreaming of waking, of learning to dare
to shout through the music - remember me!
but hope and the wardrobe are all but bare.
Life is the wine, and the wine is free
of the weight of the old, and the rash desire
to shout through the music - remember me!
And the touch of a hand is a funeral pyre
of all I remember from earlier days
of the weight of the old, and the rash desire
that lingers long where the juke-box plays.
