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SighA sigh.A simple, quiet, breathless sigh escapes you and I'm spellboundconfounded by this conflict- swaying, sweeping from your lips into the atmosphere which may or haven't heard , nor ever exhaled your name.In mere decades when my swollen cheeks have sunk slowly with the sun, though lost -unlike the sun-it's warming glow.And when the days like ever changing tides have ebbed the glint of youth from my eyesYou would still sigh a sigh like this sigh and with that sigh , I would sigh and know...You're all the same: a whisp of clarity when my mind in stormy years have cloudedAnd the sight of that slight swelling of your chest will still catch my breath.How a simple, quiet, breathless sigh, so long, so comfortably had shroudedthese bared trusting shoulders you lifted all of the world off of.I could own, curate a gallery-it's only artwork you,breathing those breaths you breatheto steal the breath of those who see you,though perhaps my visions' wasted, for my
The Cooper.It was still dark there. Where thought meets feeling.A grey, cold dampness like my cellar where fine wines were once kept, but now only feint wafts of once rich fermentation and oak reveals it had stored such treasure.Thin silken cobwebs are draped over the barrels, cracked and empty. As though protecting them, waiting silently to capture anyone who dare see the stains within.He glances at me. That defiant piercing stare of a burglar, uninvited entry into my soul.I avert my gaze, flustered.He gently sweeps the gossamer net aside, exposing the the vessels barren and vulnerable, where only a year ago they were pregnant, a daring Merlot awaiting it's first breath of air.'No!' my voice trembles, I step between him and the cask. 'Not yet.'I retreat into the dark corner where it's stacked and the cold rivets press into the small of my back, crushing into my spine. Later I'll press my fingers into the round bruises shaded Medoc Noir.He touches my fingers, pulls my hand and steadies my
Who Stole The SongRemember when there was something to fight forWhen a voice wasn't just soundWhen it meant something.AnythingRemember when we had something to die forand the cries in your chest couldn't be containedand you poured out your soul like torrential rain*********Hey, When did it dry up?When did we stop looking to the sky?Waiting on a cloudburst to break upThat would make the heavens cryNo one knew, what they knew all alongWho would remember who,Who stole the song?************Remember when there was something to kill forWhen life wasn't just livingHating, forgivingRemember when we felt some kind of thrill forA rush in your chest you couldn't containNow theres' nothing but numb where there should've been pain*********How, when did it dry out?When did the sound stop falling from the sky?Nobody said, but they knew it would die outNo one would rememberNo one would tryNo one would point fingersWhen they knew all alongNo one would remember whoWho stole the song.
Ticket To Heaven: No RefundsWhen church became a businessAnd 'God' the product lineand all who once kneeledIn faith now pay the retribution fineWhen man exploited miraclesClipped belief from their cuticlesPlaced imagination on a pedestalall in search of the Devinea Prophet crucified for profitatonement paid with change in your pocketno one thought twice about itAnother clear conscience purchased.You bought your ticket up to heavenfrom the booth set up in Helland all you could see was rosesDespite the sulphur that you smelledYou bought your ticket ,no refunds nowDestination: pearly gates aboveJust enough that jangle in your pocketYou never thought to pay with love.You never thought to pay with love.