Outstretched hands
Holding lyrics and pens
Crying out from foreign lands
The solitude of morning times
An open heart committing
Passionate crimes
While strumming strings
And lending love
To living things
There's a stillness now
As he forgets
where to put his fingers
On his frets
Simple warm
Cliched now too
Nothing good comes
Till afternoon
All the whiskey vows
And promised things
The crowd now bows
To peasant kings
Letters lost
And missing stamps
fumbling home
Toward dim lit lamps
In her eyes
He catches a glimpse
Something stone
And far too dense
dreaming of
Sad romance
He can't keep up
But can't back down
Writing songs
No one around
Harmonica sounds
Like somber rain
Beating against
The window pane
The sound of loss
And general remorse
And runner out
No cross-country course
Dismal sheets
of melting ice
Spring it comes
Once or twice
A year in which
The adjustor knows
His adjustment will change
As each new wind blows
Time goes on
In empty spells
Looking for
New Sumurna sea shells
With some friends he made
Quite long ago
Some longer than
Others though
A lost lamb
Who just grew up
scowling at his
Whiskey cup
Solitude welcomes sympathy
Reflecting back on
A long catastrophe
A shot here or a shot there
Ten shots later
He is unaware
He hurts others too