Tomorrow, by weathered windowpane
05/20 2022
By the weathered windowpane
As you lean your cheek upon your hand
The landscape a tarnished game
That you won’t or can’t blame
It runs toward you slowly,
No matter your fame
As I clasp my pen in my hand
Beneath that windowpane.
But hear what noise from your sigh,
I search for but a sign
For me as I strive for the divine
In the hesitation of the dawn.
Stenciled faces,
A ghostly pair
Up on the café wall,
on the old town square
Except but the envious face
Of the mustached John
Watching the bathroom stall
Flap open and yawn.
Sea of faces,
An endless sprawl
Of anonymous waves,
Where the café sits at the shore
Let me to my vices,
To the ink on the floor
That tries to reach,
Reach up to that door.
Tales of old heroes
Take my hand and lead me on
To the realm of of tales never told before
In basements of red woe I say give me more
But fever takes me that burns to my bones
And listen to the voices from below
That grab your neck forcefully
And entwine your last goodbye
With the feeling of ‘perhaps just once more’
As I grab my coat and walk out the street,
That splatters with rain,
Echoes up to that windowpane.
And then upon the stage,
Where everybody else is the player,
Feel among the ivory layers,
The song of a thousand winters
A long way from the weathered windowpane.