What, I write songs too? Part VII

My apologies for yet another unaccompanied original post. That’s what happens when your writer has a dry throat and doesn’t feel terribly well in other regards, either. On the brighter end, I’m back up to a good chubby 125 pounds, though the flab is starting to disconcert my inflated self-image. It’s high time I began exercising again.

I wrote this song during my first visit to Copenhagen. An escape of sorts from a place rife with memory which turned into a strange descent into an odd state of mind. Living in reminders. Naturally the lyrics won’t make so much sense to anyone else, but… I’m rather pleased with them. Maria’s had a lightbulb to use some strings on this pensive beast.

Link here.

A Thousand Post-Its

That perfect shade of green,
The checklists sewn between,
Pillows – soft corduroy:
Thrones for missing toys.

Post-its, broken leaves,
Of grass, Gymnopedie.
Fierce eyes, wavy bangs,
Not quite an octave hands.

Your light across the street,
Head bowed to hurried feet,
The courtyard never sleeps,
When Iron & Wine sing.

Calendars of Moby Dick,
Lemon tea when I’m sick,
Massages in fluid french,
Italian songs. I flinch.

Overwhelmed with empathy,
Sing my song for you so quietly.
Wrinkled nose, thoughtful lips,
Kissing every fingertip.


Scented candles, halting pens,
Woven thick with arrogance,
Writing Cambria on patterned quilts,
Of piano keys that strum their guilt.

The meaning of a name,
No one is the same.
Bridge the gap with compliments,
Hold the dark in longing silence.


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