It's just a small thing,
latched to my wall,
eating the light,
long into night, as the morning bells ring,
and the crows on the upper most tower, they sing.
Cause it's old,
cased in a ragged wood frame,
that, when it was sold,
had little but corner street deals to its name.
But I forget,
and tell stories of knights,
cased in rugged steel armor,
who once saved in a fight,
the frame, only the frame,
that stole the last of the dawn's early light.
And when I forget,
I then know the river,
the town, lining its edge,
the paint-coated girl, stood on its ledge,
frozen and frowning, mid-shiver,
a life drowned in dredge
that someone, somewhere, thought deserved to be saved,
if not in the way the girl might have liked,
and critics, they raved,
smiling and smirking and saying, quite sure, that, though he had caved,
his paintings would latch to a wall, one day, while the owner and children and wife, they would hike, or bike, or even dislike,
and the girl, hedging a fledgling unsuitable ledge,
she almost jumps,
stuck in the night,
and testing the waters she's pulled into sight,
but I forget,
and it's just a small thing
I sometimes regret,
as the day, its morning bells ring, and crows, they sing and I, fetching my toast and my tea, leave for work,
cause there's nothing to see.
latched to my wall,
eating the light,
long into night, as the morning bells ring,
and the crows on the upper most tower, they sing.
Cause it's old,
cased in a ragged wood frame,
that, when it was sold,
had little but corner street deals to its name.
But I forget,
and tell stories of knights,
cased in rugged steel armor,
who once saved in a fight,
the frame, only the frame,
that stole the last of the dawn's early light.
And when I forget,
I then know the river,
the town, lining its edge,
the paint-coated girl, stood on its ledge,
frozen and frowning, mid-shiver,
a life drowned in dredge
that someone, somewhere, thought deserved to be saved,
if not in the way the girl might have liked,
and critics, they raved,
smiling and smirking and saying, quite sure, that, though he had caved,
his paintings would latch to a wall, one day, while the owner and children and wife, they would hike, or bike, or even dislike,
and the girl, hedging a fledgling unsuitable ledge,
she almost jumps,
stuck in the night,
and testing the waters she's pulled into sight,
but I forget,
and it's just a small thing
I sometimes regret,
as the day, its morning bells ring, and crows, they sing and I, fetching my toast and my tea, leave for work,
cause there's nothing to see.