upon the autumn streets when the city is away

on some lonesome quest for winter

the man who sings his poems unravels his display

and the neon [bad word] turn to splinters

and the nights are cold sometimes

but never for his pages

they don't sway against this wilderof the stage

and the ageless battle cries I unearthed from my eyes

no longer writhe because the singing poet is wise

they said that love of mine won't wither

that time will bring a treasure trove of things

and the shadows now are just a sliver

but still it stings

but it doesn't matter

when the poet sings

under the smoky chimes of roll up cigarettes and rhymes

beneath the ponds of makeshift filters

he told me that my sorries were

really not worth their weight sometimes

and it was best to let them wither

and though I've sung [bad word] 

those bells of innocence undone

with the side of the sun

but within his song I sail

amongst the sounds where sunlight fell

when my experience begun

and when I'm weather-worn

the virtues of my mind have torn away

and no such sounds won't stray

and if I keep my sorries they'll not wither

and time will bring a treasure trove of things

and the shadows now are just a sliver

but still it stings

but it doesn't matter

when the poet sings

and when this drifting debutante

 [bad word] of age

and her days of youth are over

she and I will both surmise

that the poet's song will [bad word] aside this man

just as the infant's sorrows hold her

and on the day that I am slayed

and by the colors of my mind betrayed

on the silence of the stage

the poet's song will set apart

and turn to flames my [bad word] 

and set my phenomenons ablaze

he said my charming death would wither

and time would bring a treasure trove of things

and the shadows now are just a sliver

but still it stings

but it doesn't matter

when the poet sings (x)