A little late for art,
a little weak for song,
I try my best to write,
and still it comes out wrong.
I looked within my heart,
I ate a peck of dirt.
I asked for extra light
and never shaved my shirt.
For every ancient blight
I found acoustic cure,
then shared it. Every part
of me was sound and sure;
but now it's late, and night
concludes a damaged age.
I guess I ought to start
to fill this empty page.
No comments:
Post a Comment