The noise it laughs in unison, a melancholic sit,
A poet sighs the years fly by, the clock ticks tick tick tick
He gazes through the window screen, the sky a simple grey,
His pain is heavy, without words, such like the sad song says
A gentle brush, his shaven head, a slight slight breeze unseen,
It’s mostly still at windowsill, his paper blank and clean,
For the troubles of a brown bag buzz, insanity in price,
A dollar-five for cheap cheap wine, each drink is tasted twice
But now the days are days of love, the noise still lives a bit,
The poet sighs and sometimes cries, the clock ticks tick tick tick,
With decaf by the windowsill, the poet sits alone,
To see a view so made of glass and wood and paint and stone
While memories of madness mock the minds of boys and men,
With moments touching paradise, the memories of when,
That cannabis could catch the sky, like comets crashing clear,
A time a time of long ago, quite lost but still quite near
Thirty years or more have slept the silver birds have flown,
The clock it simply ticks tick tick, in glass and wood and stone,
And silence is a butterfly, and love a soft embrace,
And joy is but a simple smile that you don’t have to chase
A speckled road from drops of wet, a view that you can hold,
A Summer’s sweet surrendering that simply won’t be sold,
With decaf by the windowsill, a poet sits alone,
To see a view so made of glass and wood and paint and stone
So now the days are days of love, the noise still lives a bit,
The poet sighs and sometimes cries, the clock ticks tick tick tick
With decaf by the windowsill, the poet sits alone,
To see a view so made of glass and wood and paint and stone
