| It’s a still life water color
|
| Of a now late afternoon
|
| As the sun shines through the curtained lace
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| And shadows wash the room
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| And we sit and drink our coffee
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| Couched in our indifference
|
| Like shells upon the shore
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| You can hear the ocean roar
|
| In the dangling conversation
|
| And the superficial sighs
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| The borders of our lives
|
| And you read your Emily Dickinson
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| And I my Robert Frost
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| And we note our place with bookmarkers
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| That measure what we’ve lost
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| Like a poem poorly written
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| We are verses out of rhythm
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| Couplets out of rhyme
|
| In syncopated time
|
| And the dangled conversation
|
| And the superficial sighs
|
| Are the borders of our lives
|
| Yes, we speak of things that matter
|
| With words that must be said
|
| «Can analysis be worthwhile?»
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| «Is the church really dead?»
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| And how the room is softly faded
|
| And I only kiss your shadow
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| I cannot feel your hand
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| You’re a stranger now unto me
|
| Lost in the dangling conversation
|
| And the superficial sighs
|
| That are the borders of our lives |