Sundown
Ink grease pronunciations of names in the flesh
Seven dances seen backwards by Monsieur
Alzheimers is a hangnail dragging across the lacework of his mind
Framed photos make him frantic as the music continues to rewind
Questions fly like dirty feathers as the once tight clock begins to unwind
Heaven only knows why weeks begin to feel like years
Napalm memories pack a punch in the gut
Like walking in wooden shoes with roots growing from the soles
Holding him prisoner of this earth
Defenseless, he opens his beak like a baby bird
While the moon pours poison down his throat
Bleach is sprayed across a painting that took 74 years to create
The beauty’s been washed away
The canvas left blank
The scarlet drapes are drawn
But he’s still waiting in the wings
Maestro promised him two more dances
Two more chances to do good
By the ink grease pronunciations of names from his flesh
But the music keeps rewinding
Gears unwinding
And that damn hangnail keeps dragging
Naggingly across the lacework of his mind
So Monsieur grabs paper and pen
Writing a note to the audience that reminds,
The clock of life is wound but one time.
