| | |
I once dreamed I was a poet,
But I was bound to a single page.
Youre not just a pen and a piece of paper,
Youre a dog-eared book grown old with age.
Ive got a friend with a golden table,
And he dines with the best of men.
Hed buy you that silver mirror,
If you could see that its only sand.
I believe that Im a writer,
But I am bound to a single page.
Sipping coffee at the edge of nightfall,
Kissing you under summer rain.
But you feed the fire when you close the door
|
|