The Prostitute
He stands, observing what he's done
To paper. Lightly the sun
Shines off the drying canvas. One
Window let's it in and frees*
The fumes of paint. A breeze
Blows in and now he sees
The smears of blood and sweat and tears;
The summation of his loves and fears,
The fridge of ready meals and beers,
The arguments, relationships
Past and present, Foreign trips,
A life of dreams and sinking ships,
All on this page before his eyes,
Masked with the paint as it's disguise.
Now it drys, he has his prize
Devised. He goes to watch tv,
Then later he returns to see
His work prepared for Destiny.
His single room he looks around,
Picks a notebook off the ground
Where the needed pen was found.
"300 bucks" he made his goal;
The price he wanted for his soul
And to himself he pinned his toll.
Epitaph*
A photograph, before she died.
She smiles at me through bright blue eyes
And glossy paper. Her hair is long,
Wild and free. Her face is "wrong";*
Wrinkled at the side, but with laughter lines.
White gold and platinum lay inshrined
In soft pink lips which seem to say
"Sorry I'm not there today"
A photograph, where she was laid:*
The stone that sits above her grave.
Her name hewn into face of rock.
Her memory, to me, it mocks;
How can a lump of heartless earth
Gush with her blood of careless mirth?
The grass is cut, the mourners mourn.
The sun is setting, the night is born.
A photograph, I take today.
Her name begins to fade away.
But in this image, it's preserved,
The minimum that she deserved.
The years have came and gone away,
I'll soon embrace Earth's loving clay.
The grass is long, wild and free.
Through bright blue skies she smiles at me.
He stands, observing what he's done
To paper. Lightly the sun
Shines off the drying canvas. One
Window let's it in and frees*
The fumes of paint. A breeze
Blows in and now he sees
The smears of blood and sweat and tears;
The summation of his loves and fears,
The fridge of ready meals and beers,
The arguments, relationships
Past and present, Foreign trips,
A life of dreams and sinking ships,
All on this page before his eyes,
Masked with the paint as it's disguise.
Now it drys, he has his prize
Devised. He goes to watch tv,
Then later he returns to see
His work prepared for Destiny.
His single room he looks around,
Picks a notebook off the ground
Where the needed pen was found.
"300 bucks" he made his goal;
The price he wanted for his soul
And to himself he pinned his toll.
Epitaph*
A photograph, before she died.
She smiles at me through bright blue eyes
And glossy paper. Her hair is long,
Wild and free. Her face is "wrong";*
Wrinkled at the side, but with laughter lines.
White gold and platinum lay inshrined
In soft pink lips which seem to say
"Sorry I'm not there today"
A photograph, where she was laid:*
The stone that sits above her grave.
Her name hewn into face of rock.
Her memory, to me, it mocks;
How can a lump of heartless earth
Gush with her blood of careless mirth?
The grass is cut, the mourners mourn.
The sun is setting, the night is born.
A photograph, I take today.
Her name begins to fade away.
But in this image, it's preserved,
The minimum that she deserved.
The years have came and gone away,
I'll soon embrace Earth's loving clay.
The grass is long, wild and free.
Through bright blue skies she smiles at me.
