A Letter to Solomon
What lyrics and words,
Would you give to me?
I wish to make Aphrodite swoon,
In shimmering waters under
The bright side of the moon.
In tempest raging,
The actors are now staging,
And surely they are paging through the pages
Of forgotten stories.
Where which,
The shadow of Forlorn looms.
All in the lonely room,
All in the lonely room.
The pool is dancing like wild fires,
And on the streets there are squeals of old tires,
Of old men and old women,
Who once were buyers,
Of famous liars,
Who wrote the books that made us fools.
The books that made us fools.
I am not a hero,
Nor am I an Edward,
Or any Romeo.
I am but a soldier lost in battle,
A rider flung off his saddle.
A wisher who waits by the phone,
But not afraid of being alone.
In romance surely lacking,
In hopes surely racking
Old books that made us believe in love,
Oh so long ago.
Tell me if the embers are still burning,
For the hands will not stop turning,
Will not stop turning,
For songs of love, or kisses, or romance that is assumed.
I will end all,
Or I will begin all.
If it is what you wish,
I can still order your favorite dish,
And do you remember when I fed it to you,
With a silver spoon?
My silverware clatters alone,
And in my flesh and in my bone,
I wish I felt the fires burning,
And wish to stop the hands from turning,
To help me continue learning,
What makes Aphrodite swoon.
Oh tell me,
What makes Aphrodite swoon?
What lyrics and words,
Would you give to me?
I wish to make Aphrodite swoon,
In shimmering waters under
The bright side of the moon.
In tempest raging,
The actors are now staging,
And surely they are paging through the pages
Of forgotten stories.
Where which,
The shadow of Forlorn looms.
All in the lonely room,
All in the lonely room.
The pool is dancing like wild fires,
And on the streets there are squeals of old tires,
Of old men and old women,
Who once were buyers,
Of famous liars,
Who wrote the books that made us fools.
The books that made us fools.
I am not a hero,
Nor am I an Edward,
Or any Romeo.
I am but a soldier lost in battle,
A rider flung off his saddle.
A wisher who waits by the phone,
But not afraid of being alone.
In romance surely lacking,
In hopes surely racking
Old books that made us believe in love,
Oh so long ago.
Tell me if the embers are still burning,
For the hands will not stop turning,
Will not stop turning,
For songs of love, or kisses, or romance that is assumed.
I will end all,
Or I will begin all.
If it is what you wish,
I can still order your favorite dish,
And do you remember when I fed it to you,
With a silver spoon?
My silverware clatters alone,
And in my flesh and in my bone,
I wish I felt the fires burning,
And wish to stop the hands from turning,
To help me continue learning,
What makes Aphrodite swoon.
Oh tell me,
What makes Aphrodite swoon?