Tell yourself plausible lies,
deny the evidence of your eyes;
tomorrow walks in dark disguise
behind the storm-enamored skies.
Death will make us all the same,
oblivion no different than fame.
Leaving triumph, leaving shame,
even we forget our name.
Counting marbles in a jar,
counting days that never are —
what's not offered, we can't choose;
what we never had, we can't lose.
Paint me in your somber hues,
match the memory of each bruise.
Nothing left of me to accuse;
I can do no more than amuse.
Lift your face now to the void,
voice a despair unalloyed.
All that's built can be destroyed;
desire is too readily cloyed.
Counting glasses in a bar,
counting every shining star —
all the things that never come,
all the things that leave us numb.
Believe all things that fools assure,
let your dreams awake and stir;
treat the impossible as though it were,
but curse the heavens if it occur.
Hold me in a moment's embrace,
never let me glimpse your face;
speak no name, leave no trace
of our passage in this place.
Counting every passing car,
counting miles we've traveled so far —
is there nothing left to see?
Is there nothing left to be?
Stephen Brooke ©2015
These are notes toward a song of the heavier sort. There will no doubt be changes---not even sure the verses will stay in this order. Yes, I have music but it is still rough too.