There's no silence here under one lamp
so late. The walls alive reverberate
with one voice: your calling passion
springing in mounts of blues electric amps,
pushing from me doubt and frantic fears of late
that no one exists who creates live expression.
Sing on, siren, for my senses unstable
for arriving here how was I able?
As no absinthe from hard drinking days
ran such red lights and bent up roadways
as I did barely moments before
drifting dazed from your door.
Thank the silver moon who led me home
while I better thought your dark eyes to roam.
Never quit, echo! I'll long pull up my sheets
and try a swirling head to rest,
to disappear into rustling summer trees
beyond silent deserted streets,
as your voice makes sounds seen.
Dreaming summer, I'll trample new ground for one chance,
with you to breathe and bask in freedom's dance.