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A Storm In Heaven, Sections 1-6

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A Storm In Heaven, Sections 1-6

To this scene we have gathered on September’s eve
Under darkening sky, where a storm may conceive
Not a sight better is that face I’ve hardly known
So frail and aged in years past he had grown
A tragedy that one with his talents immense
Must be interred so young, still with look of innocence
Too long had my brother decayed under the weight
Of a burden, I’m afraid, that had become too great

And of that blessed curse that I speak
She stands now in the background waiting for her peek
At the man who loved her more than life itself
From the moment they met, he would heed no help
For his eyes had spotted Atlantis it would seem
That girl was no less than a living, breathing dream
And so it was fated by the powers above
The late Ryan Adams be doomed by his love

Young and wild, his heart would stay no cage
At 18, good Ryan as wise as any mage
With the world before him and regrets left behind 
The hermited scholar thought the world quite unkind
Joyous was he of his departure from home
To leave for greener pastures where he was free to roam
An artist he was in his heart and his soul
If not to this end, he would never be whole

Paintings so quaint did he stroke by the night
Quietly laboring by the buzzing street light
Mountains snowcapped and rivers of glass
Any nature’s fancy to pay the time to pass
Restless in heart and sleepless in mind
The troubadour knew not what he wished to find
But longing did fester in his young fevered head
And his heart ever ached, beating love as blood red

A man needs a woman, so the heavens made it so
Cloudseated phantoms casting spells down below
Enchanting a fool so to drive him insane
For the purpose of loving another in vain
To squeeze every drop of passion from his being
And blindfold the eyes he could once use for seeing
A hopeless romantic is born in such a way
And so poor Ryan Adams did become that day

The night air was cool and the liquor ran free
Rivers to the gates of hell or a wine dark sea
For the bottle does make demons of us all
If freedom from troubles is a price fairly tall
And Ryan did imbibe twice his weight on occasion
No other could compare to a man of his station
No less than three times in a week did he stumble
Into stupors of hazy, chaotic jumble


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