The Old Wood
He said cover me with poems
when I'm in the old wood
paint your eyes of sapphire
and run free you should.
I am the small dreams in your memory
the waterfall in your tears
the beat in your heart
the life of your art.
He said I am the papercut
that bleeds a quick pain
I am the door not shut
I am a lingering sugar cane.
I am the ash of beauty
the reality of nothing
the instruments in sing
the streep of a sting.
Yes, cover him with poems
when he's in the old wood
paint his eyes of sapphire
and run free he should.
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