cello player walks home
every evening, alone
lost in the thoughts of broken notes
lost in the lots and lots and lots.
young chivlery is all gone
gone is the haste of rising dreams
measured pace of wise is in
half you know but half is within.
great voices still call him aside
in the lonly part of concert ride
severe pangs are a part of him
pain free mornings are lost in the grim
brighter brighter is the call of the call
silent lover is pulling to the ball
cello is an old fashioned mill,
destined, one day, to be still
Who will unlock the white gates of guilt,
away from the ground but still on stilt,
notes of music are hard to die
hearts dry up, souls just sigh
great mournings are not my destiny,
concerts I play are, not my destiny
force my drift into the soulful oblivion
o great pope of yesteryears
beget me, and my womb in single apparition
as the morning sun begets the pearly dew on moist grass.
