| And I’m grown I have logic and wisdom and clarity
|
| And I know about magic and reason and the disparity
|
| And as I’m ticking down the days to whatever time is left
|
| Of my senses it seems I have become bereft
|
| I am undone I am once again undone
|
| By beauty I am mostly always undone
|
| I have an existential understanding of
|
| What the poets mean when they refer to love
|
| But he’s The Last Boy
|
| Whom the gods have sent to lark as I am thus destroyed
|
| And my will and all my years lay in the balance
|
| As I’m veering towards this consecrated openness
|
| My weary soul is faint and failing fast
|
| And this longing gaze I take may be
|
| The last of me
|
| And he shambles in all the right ways
|
| Flinching, caught by the light in such bewitching disarray
|
| Oh scoop him up and drop him back into the nest
|
| Take his fledgling hands and find him rest, oh
|
| When oh, oh, oh, my sanity be damned
|
| How he vexes me this constantly surprising little scandal
|
| When I am ashen and my voice has fallen dark
|
| His confectionary face will sweetly flutter across my heart
|
| Acute perception, such a blessing and affliction
|
| Ruling recklessly when coaxing forth affection
|
| From The Last Boy
|
| Whom the gods have sent to lark as I am thus destroyed
|
| And my will and all my years lay in the balance
|
| As I’m veering towards this consecrated openness
|
| My weary soul is faint and failing fast
|
| And this longing gaze I take may be
|
| The last of me
|
| And at my end of days I’ll cover all the mirrors
|
| Find this well worn page and with coyness linger here
|
| With The Last Boy
|
| Whom the gods have sent to lark as I am thus destroyed
|
| And my will and all my years lay in the balance
|
| As I’m veering towards this consecrated openness
|
| My weary soul is faint and failing fast
|
| And this longing gaze I take may be
|
| The last of me |