In the book of rhythm, October came first
Sprawled across the evening sky,
tracing a frail line between grace and hope.
Then I would come into the cafe,
Confident and tall,
This was my time, again.
Only to fall muttering over another coffee
I never needed.
I think you were waiting to hear the stories,
Tales on sparkling wings,
And In my rehearsals, they stretched far,
oh so far.
Following the line above,
Far away from the endless taunts,
Tossed around by the sophisticates of diligence
Lying in wait around the next corner.
In the time before rhythm,
there were only secrets,
Scattered across far fields,
Where no one has yet wandered.
Come again October,
So I might be your guest
In the grand palace of of your light,
Where your shadows tall,
Guide us into your soft arms.