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In a hidden corner sits a pale blue child
with the crayon-map of latitudes he travels by
he remains at very best unplanned
I see the strangest faces on these Tarot cards
she shuffles and she deals them out so clean & hard
& I can't forget her hands On these postcards lives a message with a voice By the alley's doorway leans a Dragon-man
the trumpet that he fingers sings of fiery ends
he is just working up his breath The mumblings of a woman who was made of straw
is scaring all the charcoal crows she loves to draw
she's as close as she will ever get On these postcards lives a message with a voice A blind man swears it's not too late to feed your dreams
his eyes are rimmed with ashes washed off in the stream
all the birds seem to sing his steps An angel gives a toast to mourn her fallen wings
her mason was a lover who stones everything
rumours are she calls for him yet On these postcards lives a message with a voice © Roland Prevost, July 09 |
